


These Boots are Made for Walkin'

by Fii_Tamae



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Emotional Constipation, Emotionally Repressed, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prostitution, Psychology, University AU, angst because Arthur angsts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-03
Updated: 2013-11-03
Packaged: 2017-12-31 09:03:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 61,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1029832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fii_Tamae/pseuds/Fii_Tamae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alfred, a student in a London University, has a strong mindset that Love exists as more than a hormone, and that everyone is entitled to love and be loved. So when he meets a male prostitute after a freak escape, will his mindset be shaken?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Psychologists and researchers have proposed a number of different theories of love. The following are four of the major theories proposed to explain liking, love, and emotional attachment._

“Alfred.”

_Psychologist Zick Rubin proposed that romantic love is made up of three elements: attachment, caring, and intimacy._

“Alfred.”

_Attachment is the need to receive care, approval, and physical contact with the other person. Caring involves valuing the other persons needs and happiness as much as your own. Intimacy refers to the sharing of thoughts, desires, and feelings with the other person._

“Alfred!”

The sound of Alfred slamming the book onto the table top resounded across the room, demanding silence as he glared at the other man. “What, Feliks? What?”

The Polish boy stared at him from under long blond eyelashes, rimmed with an attention grabbing shade of pink. “You're, like, totally out of it, Alfie. I called you, like, a _billion_ times.”

Alfred pinched the bridge of his nose, pushing his wire-rimed glassed up onto his forehead. “I _know_ , Feliks.”

“Then why, like, _totally_ igno-”

“Oh I dunno, maybe 'cos I'm trying to work through a _pile_ of psychology papers and there's you, 'AlfredAlfredAlfred', just _stop_.” He threw the thin paperback at a mound of books. Feliks looked at Alfred as they toppled loudly onto the floor.

“Alfie.”

“Hmm?”

“You need food.”

Alfred slumped where he sat. The long fingers of irritation that had rooted themselves into Alfred's strong shoulders seemed to recede slightly. “Yeah.” He said, addressing the carpet. “Yeah, maybe I do.”

 

* * *

 

 

Alfred stuck his fork into a slab of pie in a much more gentle manner than the one he had used with the books. He focused on his food for a while before bringing his thoughts back to the present. Feliks waited until Alfred looked at him, and then waited a little longer.

“Why do you always put on that lipgloss?” Alfred said round a mouthful of pastry, gesturing at his friend with the trident of the fork.

Feliks glanced up from the compact mirror he held in his pale hand. He snapped it shut and popped his lips, smiling through a painted, rose petal mouth. “because it looks _fabulous_ , right.” He said.

“Naw” Alfred polished off the pie on his plate. “I mean, it does, but why do you use that particular brand? More specifically, why do you use that same tube, over and over. I know it's the same.”

Feliks pulled a dumbfounded expression while still somehow pursing his glossy lips. “Dude. What's so weird about that?”

“You know what I mean. I mean I know you, you're my roomate. We know who's underwear stains who's pink in the washer” Feliks showed some pearly teeth. “C'mon, man. I'm serious, you like to experiment. So why stick to that one tube of lipgloss?”

Feliks watched Alfred sideways, his green eyes glinting in the florescent light. “This brand is, like, super-ultra- special to me Alfred. That's why.” The two students looked at each other. A memory of a face passing between their minds like an electronic pulse.

“Now.” Stated Feliks, placing his manicured hands on the steel table-top. “I get to ask the questions. Why are you, like, burying yourself under, like, a ton of books? Dude, it can't be good for you.”

Alfred sighed and pushed his clean plate away. He looked at the polished china for a while. Then he took off his glasses and scrubbed a hand through his corn-fields-of-gold locks, making them stand up like chicken-fuzz. “It's the course. I...Feliks I wanna do well on the course.”

Feliks furrowed his blond brow, leaning forward slightly. “But..Dude. You are doing well...really well. Every-”

“I know what everyone says. But.. Feliks. I want to do really well.” Alfred leaned forward too. Begging his friend to understand with his gaze. Trying to establish a connection, blue eyes to green. Willing the emerald irises to spark with understanding.

The spark never came. “Alfred. I'm not going to pretend I get it, but I want to understand, I totally do, just try to explain. Maybe you'll, like, I dunno, make it clearer to yourself too.”

Alfred leaned back in his seat, sweeping his gaze over the diner and it's inhabitants. “Well. I mean, it's pretty clear to me. What I want. In my own mind. But. It's just. This is what I have to do to get there. I have to push myself, I have to be the best, the top of the game. It doesn't matter if it's hard for me. It's about the rest of the world. And it's like I'm the only one who can do it. It has to be me. It's like..I'm. It's just....” Alfred turned back to his friend, and leaned forward again. The words finally coming to mind. “It's like I'm born for this, Feli.”

Feliks studied his friends face, a second image floating like a haze before the man sitting in the booth across from his. He studied the tired, sickliness showing through the tan skin, the locks of messed, blond hair falling over his face, the slight shadow of stubble dusting over his chin. He compared this image with the ones he held in boxes in his mind. Alfred laughing, Alfred running, Alfred climbing trees, Alfred crying, Alfred bleeding, Alfred tearing up daises and dreaming of a future where he could be looked apon with love and understanding, and never, truly wanting anything else in return.

Feliks blinked himself back into the diner. He let his fair head tilt to the side, his long pale-blond hair sweeping his shoulders. He smiled, the small movement narrowing his eyes with love.

“You sound like a superhero.”

Alfred blinked, looking like a boy startled by a sudden compliment. Then his handsome face broke into a grin, creasing the corners of his eyes.

He chatted to Feliks. Asked the waitress for another cup of coffee and cake. Bought a few more slices of pie. Feliks jibbed him about his eating habits a few times. Then they went back to the dorms laughing and talking, through the dark, busy streets of London.

 

* * *

 

 

“Just because science claims that the feeling of love, is simply a rush of hormones released from the sex organs of men and women in a bid to reproduce, does not mean that love, in itself is simply an animalisitc urge. It does not mean that love is dead. It does not mean that love never existed. It does not mean that love is a figment of our imagination. I would like to draw your attention to anomalies of this case. Those of the human race who cannot have children, who cannot reproduce; they still retain the power to love, the _need_ to be loved. Gays and lesbians. Young and old. Those with illnesses and mental defects. All still have the power and need to love and be loved. Therefore I believe that love, in itself, completely, and wholly exists. It _has_ to, not only for the well being of the earth, but for the well being of the human race. Love is as vital for life, as the air we breath. Something so powerful, so completely mind blowing and life changing, has to be more than a scientists chart of glands and hormones. People have been known to fight, to battle, to sacrifice, to completely re-write their entire mental thought process, and even to _die_ for love. I now draw attention to the fact that love, therefore, cannot be a simple rush of hormones, as it completely defies what it is to be a hormone. What hormone in the human body, what electric signal in the entire nervous system tells a human to destroy itself? It goes _completely against_ what it is to _be_ a hormone. It goes against human nature. Therefore. I conclude. That love actually is a force all of its own. I believe that love exists. And it exists for, and in, each and every one of us.”

Alfred finally stopped for breath. He kept his gaze steady as he made his way up the thin wooden steps, back to his seat in the lecture hall, he sat down next to Feliks, and finally, the room seemed to snap out of the dream Alfred's words had lulled it into. A massive surge of applause broke out and filled the room to the very top of the ceiling. People whistled and laughed and called out his praise. The entire room, moved.

“Like. Wow.” Feliks grinned. “I swear that, like, has to be your longest speech yet. What was that, twenty pages?”

Alfred gave his friend a sheepish, sideways grin. The skin under his eyes growing red. “Twenty-five.” He said then leaned down to rub a badly shaking hand against his leg. “Jeez, I thought I was gonna have a heart attack, stop breathing, and collapse all at the same time down there.”

“Like, wow.” Feliks said again. “And you think you have to push yourself harder.” He looked back to the desk where the lecturer was drawing attention back to the lesson.

“I do” Alfred said “Just a little more. Just a bit more.”

Feliks glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, then took the brand new, class-issue book from the girl handing them out.

“What is it?” Alfred leaned over so close that his ear brushed Feliks' long hair.

“Dude, personal bubble.” Feliks flapped his hand around in Alfred's face. “Can't you, like, wait 'till you get yours?”

Alfred leaned back and pouted. “No, my guy's all the way down-” A copy of the book was pushed into Alfred's hands. “Oh.”

Feliks raised an eyebrow at him.

Alfred flipped the glossy soft-back and scanned the cover. “Cool. Freud.” He drawled. His American accent colouring the words.

“Dude. It's _Freud_.” Feliks said.

Alfred frowned. “That's what I said.”

Feliks looked at him.

“So the Study of Dreams huh?” Feliks opened the book and cracked the spine. Grinning at the feel of it's pages.

“And a few essays on Sexuality.”

“Where?”

“At the back” Alfred pointed.

“'Deviations in respect of the Sexual Object'” Feliks read, “'A) Inversion, B) Sexually immature Persons and Animals as Sexual Objects.' This should, like, totally fit in with your “Love as an Actual Entity” bit.”

“Yeah? Well it's ticked all your boxes so far. Inversion, Sexual immaturity...”

“Shuddup.”

Alfred grinned.

“Hay, I know it's thrilling stuff, but can we keep on track here people?” The lecturer's well used voice reached out to all the gossiping students. Silence fell. Feliks openly giggled. Alfred hid behind his book and bit his lip.

 

* * *

 

 

Alfred groaned loudly, ripping off his glasses and sending them skidding across the small glass table. He buried his long, tan fingers into his hair and rested his elbows on his bare knees. He sat in his boxers and a shirt on the small, comfy sofa. Before him lay a battle ground of books and pens and papers, and open, on the cluttered table, lay the brand new Freud book, open around three-quarters of the way through.

The bathroom door opened, light flooding the darkened living room. Alfred scrubbed at his eyes and looked up quickly, flinging himself back and attempting to pull off nonchalance. Feliks walked in, skin flushed and water droplets rolling down his pale body. Fresh from the shower he wore surprisingly masculine boxers compared to the frills and lace he wore over them, misleading a stranger into thinking that the lithe slim body and capable, strong muscles underneath did not exist.

He raised his eyebrows at the pile of books, a towel around his neck, pulling a comb through his damp hair. “Whacha doin'?” he asked serious and playful at the same time.

“Workin'” Alfred replied in the same light tone.

“Thats a lotta' work.” He commented. Leaning down to shift a few sheets and peer at a few books. He caught sight of the copy of Freud. Creased and open. He snatched it up and stared at the page presented to him. “ _Kurwa_ , Alfred! We only got that the other day, you're nearly finished!”

“Not finished yet.” He said gruffly, and reached for the book.

Feliks held the book and suddenly looked nervous. His hair dripped. Alfred lowered his hand.

“Alfred. At the rate you're going. You could be called a genius.”

Alfred scowled. “I'm not a genius. I just work hard.”

Feliks leaned down and returned the book, dripping a bit more. “Work too hard, maybe.” Alfred opened his mouth but Feliks cut him off with a flick of his wrist. “By all means, work as hard as you want, be the top in the country, become the hero you where born to be. But have a holiday or two huh? It's the weekend tomorrow.” Feliks looked at his roommate until he met his eyes. “Why don't you leave the books to rest for a while? You, of all people can afford too.”

Alfred paused, a crease between his eyebrows. Then he sighed and looked at his hands in this lap. “I guess you're right.”

Feliks winked and bounced around the table. “I'm, like, always right.” He took Alfred's larger hands in his and yanked him to his feet.

“Now, get up, pull some pants on and scram.”

Alfred stumbled in confusion. “What? Why? You're dripping on me. Where are we going?”

“Um mm.” Feliks hummed negatively. “Not we; you. Your going out for a nice, relaxing walk on your own.” Feliks practically pushed the American student over as he hopped on one foot, trying to pull his jeans on under the viscous order of his friend. Alfred considered putting quotation marks on that term in the future. “Just you, London streets, and your thoughts.”

Feliks pushed him out the door. Alfred frowned, turned and opened his mouth to argue and got a face full of jacket for his trouble.

“Trust me, it'll, like, do you _wonders_.” The Polish student promised, sealing it with a wink, and shutting the door in his 'friends' face.

Alfred stood for a while in the empty hall, just staring at his side of the door. He could hear Feliks singing to himself through the wood. He sighed again, then turned and walked to the stairs, pulling on his jacket.

He walked quickly at first, before he realized that he didn't actually have anywhere to be. He cooled the pace a bit then. His long legs taking lazy strides across the tarmac. He looked at the other people out walking in the late London afternoon. Couples, gangs, businessmen and women, people on phones, people begging. People. Everywhere. And all of them had someone to love, someone to love them. Alfred almost lost himself in his work again, before pulling himself out of that train of thought. No. Feliks wanted him to relax, think of something else, something besides work...

What do you think about when you don't think of work? The realization that he didn't quite know unsettled Alfred a bit. He walked. Looked at people. Bought himself a coke. Binned the coke. Browsed through books in a shop. Then went exploring through the wide and wonderful world of clothes. And finally, Alfred managed to loose himself for a few hours, and when he eventually left yet another clothes store he glanced at his watch and had to double check that the time wasn't lying to him.

Alfred looked at the sky. He hadn't noticed when it had gotten dark. The street lights had kept it bright enough. Alfred breathed through his nose, his eyes closed, then he turned to make his way home.

The street was dotted with cars. One car, however, seemed to be watching him. It's tinted windows seemed to grow eyes and stare at him, unblinkingly. It's dark paintwork emitting and aura of menace, sucking all the artificial light from the streets into itself. Alfred's fingertips grew cold and a ball of buzzing energy formed itself in his stomach, pushing the blood and organs out the way and making Alfred blink too fast and twitch slightly.

Alfred considered turning around and taking a longer rout home. But then, half of him reasoned. That would take longer. And whoever is in the car will think that you are weird. There's probably not even anyone in that car anyway. You can't base everything on feelings, it reprimanded him. Alfred drew a shaky breath and forced himself to walk again. His instincts screaming at him, and his logic screaming just as hard. Alfred's jaw clenched and his fingers shook in the pockets of his jacket. His legs felt like lead and the cold was creeping into his body. At last, he came to the car and was about to pass by when the window rolled down.

Alfred looked at the window, then leaned down to look through it. It's probably just a lost tourist. _At this time of night?_ You shouldn't be so suspicious of people, what happened to your theories of love? _Again, at this time of night?_ Well, even if it is a weirdo, I can take him. I'm the tallest in my class. _Height won't save you from a gang of batshit crazy knife-wielding murderer/rapist/psychopaths!_

Alfred plastered on a smile and looked through the window. “Hi, how can I h-.”

The coldness left him as he recognized the driver behind the wheel. His face contorted with rage.

“You. What the fuck are you doing here?”

Ivan Braginski looked at Alfred with happy, violet eyes. “Добрый вечер, Alfred.”

Alfred's lip curled and he made to walk away, but Ivan called him back. “Wait, my friend, can we please talk? I have a problem that regards Toris.”

Alfred paused mid-turn. An internal battle raged. Eventually he stamped his foot, wrenched open the door and sat in the car. Ivan made to start the engine but Alfred's hand clamped down on the leather steering-wheel. “Oh no.” He glared “we talk right here.”

Ivan simply smiled and folded his hands in his lap. “Very well.” His Russian accent heavy on every word. Clicking and purring. “It seems that Toris is not very happy.”

Alfred's lip curled. “Well, that's a shame. You can't be a very good roommate then.”

“Apparently not.” The Russian admitted. “I was wondering to myself. I thought. 'How can I make dear Toris more happy? How can I make him living apart from his dear Feliks more bearable?' and it hit me” The older man's eyes lit up and Alfred wished something had hit him. “I thought, since he is been going to a different university to his friends, I shall bring his friends to him!” Ivan clapped his hands, smiling. Then he turned back to the wheel and started the engine of the car.

This time Alfred make no move to stop him. His hands twitched in an almost reflex like way to the steering-wheel but he blinked, and pulled them back to his lap. He was going to see Toris? If he saw Toris, he could see how he was, catch up, and then report back that all was ok to Feliks. It had to be ok. Toris may not have called. He may not have texted. He may not have shared an email address, home address, or telephone number, but Toris had always had home problems. And he always got in touch after moving.

Alfred glanced at the man in the seat next to him. Humming to himself and navigating the road like he was so used to it that he could drive with his eyes closed. Ivan. Freshly graduated Ivan Braginski. Toris' new roommate as he went to a different university to his closest friends. Ivan who emitted the black aura of cold unease. Alfred looked out the window. A nagging wish to turn his head niggled at the back of his neck like ghost fingers. He wanted to glance around, just to check that Ivan was not watching him, reaching out to touch him.

Alfred shivered involuntarily.

“Are you alright? You are not cold?” So he had been watching him.

Alfred swallowed and opened his mouth to tell the Russian that he was fine. When he realised, “Wait, I don't recognise this part of London.”

Ivan chuckled “Of course you don't. You do not know where I live.”

This was true, but the cold, fear was settling itself in Alfred's stomach again. “But this isn't even a neighborhood, look” he pointed out the rain-spattered, tinted window. “This is just a load of-”

Alfred looked at Ivan. The other man had pulled the car over to an dank, unlit road, pitted with potholes and pieces of rubbish growing damp in the rain.

“You are a very beautiful man, Alfred.” Alfred breathed in sharply through his nose, his blue eyes widening. “Maybe...” the Russian seemed to ponder something, totally relaxed, cool, clear minded. While Alfred's mind was filling with static. Ivan reached out a hand and touched Alfred's cheek. The American blinked so hard his head jerked. “Maybe...” Ivan said again “I should break you, like Toris. He is beautiful too.”

The words where a bucket of water in Alfred's face and he span in his seat, fingers fumbling at the door handle.

Large, cold hands clamped around his arms like a machine, ripping him away from the door. Ivan pushed Alfred against the car seat, his fingers bruising his skin. Alfred gasped and dug his nails into Ivan's broad hands, but the other man didn't even blink. Alfred turned his face away and his jaw worked soundlessly as he felt Ivan's cold lips against his cheek, his jaw, his neck.

Alfred balled a hand into a fist and threw a punch at Ivan. The Russian grabbed his hands and pinned them above his head, continuing his ministrations about Alfred's neck.

Alfred looked at the car roof above him. His eyes wide and fuzzy around the edges with panic. Fear pumped adrenalin around his body. His heart pounding. His palms cold and sweaty. And the realisation staring him right in the face that he was going to be raped. Right there. By a man he only knew through a feeling of intense. Cold. Fear.

Alfred screamed. He screamed so hard that the windows rattled and his ears rung afterwards. He wrenched his hands out of Ivan's steel grip, dug his knee into whatever it would connect with and squirmed as hard as he could.

Alfred thanked god that a grunt of pain had gasped its way from Ivan's cold lips. He gripped the headrests and pulled his way through the suddenly minute gap between the seats. He fell into the back seat and frantically looked for an escape rout. Ivan seemed to have recovered from the knee Alfred had dealt him and glared, his violet eyes glinting in the darkness. He leaned over to the drivers seat and pushed a button.

Alfred's breath stopped when he heard the tell tale ' _shunk_ ' of the automatic doors locking. Ivan moved towards where Alfred was cowering in the backseat. Alfred screamed and kicked Ivan in the face, he fell back, a hand over his nose. Alfred lunged up and grabbed the handle of the rain-speckled sun-roof, wrenching it open. It stopped with barely enough space to get his arm out. Alfred screamed in frustration and punched the screen. The impact jarred his fist, but the opening gaped. Alfred's eyes widened, his heart soaring with hope. He drew his fist back again and punched the screen giving it all he was worth.

The screen flew back with a crack and Alfred laughed, gripping the sides and hauling himself up. Cold hands gripped his coat and he looked down into the darkness of the car, violet eyes glinting furiously up at him. Alfred struggled against the pull as it began to drag him back into the darkness, like an Angel being abducted by demons. Is that what they would say when there was no sign of him? That he had been demoned away by fallen angels? Spirited away by ghosts? Vanished by nightmares? The horror of that thought was enough to give him one last push. His hands shaking with the effort of keeping his body up, he heaved one last time, and kicked blindly with both feet. He felt them connect with something, a howl of pain and a thud, then Alfred was up and jumping off the roof, sprinting away with only one shoe, and his jacket left behind.


	2. Chapter 2

Alfred's breath gasped and sobbed in his ears. Every drag of oxygen his lungs heaved rattling down his throat. The sound of his pounding feet echoing in the dark, damp air. The world span and watched him run like a vulture. His jeans and one shoeless sock soaked in the cold puddles left behind by the rain. He ran and ran and ran, before finally his head began to clear and he realised that his legs where screaming at him in agony.

Alfred stopped in an alleyway steeped in shadow. The sound of his gasping resounding and sounding back at him in the towering walls fencing him in. And suddenly, the last of the white noise in his brain lifted and the air felt softer on his face. His legs trembled with the effort of keeping him up and he shivered in the cold night air. A sharp pain shocked through his right knuckle, wrenching along his nerves, the pain agonising enough to make him feel sick, blurring his vision. He looked down warily at his hand and after a glance he threw his head back and stared up at the sky. The skin was bruised and ripped, ragged tares lining his fist, the fingers where stiff but somehow they still seemed to be capable of small, involuntary movements, simple, tiny shivers and twitches which just stabbed his hand constantly. That, Alfred thought, is definitely broken.

A sudden clattering sound boomed at the mouth of the alleyway and Alfred whirled around, his heart in his mouth. A small black cat padded out from behind a toppled bin. It looked at him, it's eyes glowing eerily in the reflection of the orange streetlights, mewled, then trotted away.

Alfred stared after the cat for a moment. Something had settled in his stomach, tight and hard, and chuckles soon bubbled their way up his chest and out his mouth. He broke into a fit of ugly giggles, then closed his eyes and laughed. The whole thing seemed ridiculous to him now. He laughed until he cried and the tears cooled and dried on his face. Then Alfred turned around and threw up against the wall. The sound of his retching bouncing off the brickwork. He moaned softly and pushed himself away from the spattered mess, stumbling over to the other side, and crouching down, cradling his hand and moaning.

He was definitely in shock. It was textbook. This could get dangerous if he didn't calm down and get a grip. Alfred leaned his forehead against the cool wall and closed his eyes.

The ghost of Ivan's eyes swam up before him, glinting meanly in the darkness of the alleyway. Cold, groping fingers wound their way around Alfred's arms, creeping tighter, pressing himself closer, breathing on the back of Alfred's neck.

Alfred's eyes snapped open and he flung himself around, eyes sweeping the empty alleyway. He fell onto his bum, soaking the seat of his jeans. He cradled his hand again, panting.

Alfred dragged his good hand through his hair, pushing his dirty, misting glasses, which by some miracle where still on his face, up his nose. And suddenly, the wish to be home, with his roommate, dry and warm, filled his entire being.

Alfred rested his head against the bricks and closed his eyes, standing in his dorm for a while in his mind. Then he groaned and pushed himself up, leaning heavily on the bricks, his shattered hand against his broad chest. Walking was easier than he imagined it would be. His steps where long and steady even though he felt like he was going to sink into the earth and evaporate up into the dark sky at the same time. He let go of the wall and emerged from the alleyway, blinking in the sudden glare of the streetlights.

He glanced around. The street was completely devoid of all life. Litter and rubbish strewn across its sad, tarmac surface. A few puddles left behind by the abrupt shower dotted here and there. The buildings large and cramped, like a face with too many teeth in it's jaw. Alfred sighed, then looked at the pavement, watching his feet as they walked, beginning what would be a long journey home.

 

* * *

 

 

Alfred didn't know how long he had been walking. It felt like time had dragged by slowly, every minuet wrapping its arms around his neck and weighing on his hunched back. Step, step, step. How many songs had he been playing in his head? Step, step, step. How many buildings and districts had he passed? Step, step, step. How-

Alfred looked up at the sound of distant voices, hope making his heart soar, dread dragging it back down. He had finally come to a bank of buildings that looked inhabited, lights other than streetlamps nailed to the walls, and shinning through drawn curtains. There where porch lights and florescent bulbs and insect repellents, throwing the streets into a spectrum called Urban Glow. Alfred kept walking, too tired to care too much, but the horror of the situation still prevented him from believing that he was truly safe now. He stared towards the alleyway where the noises where floating towards him from the opposite side of the road.

“What you on about?”

“He's havin' a laugh.”

“I assure you, I'm perfectly serious. No compromise, no sale.”

Alfred looked down the alleyway in alarm. God forbid, all he needed was to be an unwilling witness to some underground drugs transaction. The two voices sounded scummy and rough, mocking the third man. But the third voice sounded calm and calculating. The vocabulary and persuasiveness of a businessman, subtly influenced by the soft and authoritative tones of a teacher.

Two men where standing in the mouth of the alleyway. Disbelieving and cock-sure grins plastered thickly on their young faces. One leaned casually against the other, regarding the man in front of them with a cruel, hungry glint in their, otherwise dead, eyes.

The third man stood alone. Head up and looking at the taller men, hands on his hips.

Alfred stopped. He stared. He forgot how to breath. And his heart, quite literally, skipped a beat.

The man was looking at the two before him in a way that suggested he was reading them like a book. His face was pale and slightly feminine around the edges, his cheekbones, and nose. Even from across the street Alfred could make out smoky grey make-up rimming his deep green eyes, and gloss coating his pink lips. His hair was a washed out blond, styled in thick, choppy curtains. The clothes he wore clung to his frame and hung off him in folds, accenting his small shape. A thin black shirt cut low to his chest standing out against his stunning pale skin. A large coat swamping him, reaching his knees which were decked out in thigh-length, steel-tipped, high-heeled boots. A strip of pale thigh was exposed underneath a pare of tight, high-waisted shorts. All of it black. All of it leather.

Alfred suddenly realised just what the man was selling: Himself.

The two men looked at each other and laughed. The sound rolling across the street and pounding against Alfred's eardrums, making him grimace. “You don't know what your dealin' with, mate.”

“'Ay, I've 'ad enough of this. I'm not fuckin' payin' you.”

The men straightened up and moved forwards, one grabbed the prostitute by the lapels of his jacket, shaking him and leaning forward to meet the shorter man's eyes. The prostitute placed his hands over his assaulter's gripping fists, a fierce, dark look crossing over his beautiful face.

“Slag” the man spat, the words dripping with gravelly loathing “where do you get off tellin' us what to do?” He shook the smaller man again so hard that his head snapped back and forth. Then the darker haired man grabbed the prostitute by the sleeve and pushed, shoving him face first against the damp, dirty wall.

Alfred jumped then and bolted forwards before he knew what he was doing. “HAY!” He called out. His voice booming across the street. The two men started and whirled around, eyes wide, and Alfred thanked god for the second time that night, this time for his misleading build. The prostitute just looked at him from behind his arm. His eyes connected with Alfred's, and Alfred felt a tug in his stomach, a flow of burning cold energy snaking its way underneath his ribs searing him deep in his chest.

The prostitute broke contact. Turning his head he leaned forward and snapped one foot back, kicking the dark haired man with his steel-tipped boot, sending him flying into a huddle of dustbins, then he reached into a pocket and swiftly pulled out a small bottle, arcing his arm up as the second man twisted around. The prostitute pressed a button and sprayed what Alfred had a sneaking feeling was probably mace directly into his grimy face.

The man screamed and pressed his hands to his eyes, stumbling to the side. “That's what you get when you don't follow my rules, bastards.” The prostitute watched the man as he rubbed his burning face, his expression one of complete uncaring. Alfred stared, his mouth open before noticing the first man pulling himself to his feet, his face contorted with rage.

“Watch out!!” Alfred yelled, the words tearing up his throat. The prostitute looked at him, then whirled around, his coat flying. There was a sickening clang and Alfred let out a small, choked sound. The prostitute stumbled back against the wall, then slid down. Alfred looked at the dark haired man, clutching a metal bin lid, and panting.

Alfred was running before his mind caught up with him. He threw himself forward, colliding with the man and tackling him to the hard ground. The man cried out as his head connected with the wet tarmac, then went still.

Alfred didn't move at first, but then slowly he got to his knees, bringing a hand to gently touch his broken fist. His jaw worked soundlessly. Fat tears rolling down his cheeks.

After struggling with the mind-numbing pain for a few minuets, Alfred finally stood up, and looked around, his sky blue eyes coming to rest on the form of the prostitute, sitting on the ground, looking at him. A patch of hair on his forehead was matting together with blood, a dribble of deep red liquid staining his pale face and dripping from his chin.

Alfred focused on breathing. He glanced at the moaning figure of the man still pawing at his eyes as if he had been struck blind. Then he stepped over to the blond prostitute. He extended his left hand, his broad, rough palm facing the night sky. The prostitute looked at it, then glanced back up to met Alfred's gaze.

Then he broke into a smile that didn't quite reach his large, green eyes. “Go home kid.”

Alfred blinked.

“I can't just leave you.” He said.

“I don't need your help. I've grown up with this. I'm fine.”

Alfred looked at the prostitute. Sitting on the damp, dirty ground, and still speaking to him like he had just stepped out of some company meeting. Then he looked at his eyes. Those beautiful, emerald eyes that.

...That looked strangely unfocused.

“No you're not” Alfred crouched down. His academic side kicking in. He pointed at the prostitute. “You have a concussion. How many fingers am I holding up?” He lifted his left hand.

The prostitute frowned. “Three”

“No, one. You're coming with me.” And before he could respond Alfred had lifted him up into his arms, and walked away, leaving the dank alleyway behind.

The prostitute didn't take it quietly, for all the blood pouring from his head, it seemed he still had enough to fill his cheeks. “Put me down you bastard! What the fuck do you think you're doing?”

Alfred ignored him, and after the sixth block they passed, the smaller blond quietened down. Eventually they reached a part of the city that had more life in it, and Alfred set the prostitute on his feet, keeping a firm grip on his forearm to prevent him from falling, or meandering dizzily to the left.

“So” he said, his cheeks burned under the awkward silence. “What's your name?”

“What? What's it to you, boy?”

Alfred pretended he didn't notice the sharpness in his tone. “I dunno, I guess I'm just sick of referring to you as 'The Prostitute' in my head.”

The smaller blond narrowed his eyes at Alfred, his glossy lip curling.

“It's Arthur.” He said.

Alfred grinned. “I'm Alfred.”

Arthur smiled sarcastically. “Oh goodie.” he said.

Alfred pouted. Then he looked around. They stood on a street lined with shops, a few street lights, and dotted with cars. Relief washed through his entire body and Alfred felt like falling to his knees and thanking god (for a third time). “C'mon” He tugged on Arthur's hand “I know his part of town.”

Arthur looked at him from under smoky eyeshadow, snatching his hand back. “I'm not so sure I'm going to let you take me where ever it is you're taking me.” He said.

Alfred turned and looked straight at the smaller man. “Well, for one thing you won't be capable of walking straight for quite a while, give or take an hour. For another, I have a med' box in the cupboard under my sink that is stuffed full of painkillers. And lastly, if I don't get home right now, get a cup of coffee, and sleep for the next week, I am going to curl up here on the floor and die because I've had what has to be, the worst night of my entire life.”

And the thought of you leaving and never seeing you again makes me feel like I'd rather break my fist for a second time.

But he didn't say that part.

Arthur regarded him for a moment longer before looking up at the lightening sky, glancing at the ground, then back to Alfred.

“Fine.” He sighed.

Alfred smiled.

 

* * *

 

 

Alfred had barely gotten a single knock on the light, polished dorm door before it was practically wrenched off it's brass hinges by a flustered, blond, Polish boy.

“Skurwysyn!!!”

Alfred tilted his head to the side and looked at Feliks tiredly. “I missed you too, Feli”

Feliks reached forward and dragged his friend into a crushing hug, burying his face into Alfred's broad shoulder. Alfred patted him on the back gently with his good hand, feeling the familiar soft cotton shirt beneath his tan fingers.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Alfred, like, where have you been??”

Alfred held Feliks at arms length, the Polish man must have been in a real state. His blond hair was mused from where he had probably been running his fingers through it in restlessness. His fair skin was completely clean, not a spot of make-up on his face. His clothes where simple, and creased from pacing, sitting down, then getting up and pacing again.

“Jesus.” Alfred remarked. “Remind me never to be kidnapped again, unless I've called you first.”

“YOU WHAT-?” Feliks halted, his green eyes wide, then they flicked to the side, passed Alfred's shoulder. “kto to jest?”

Alfred feared that his friend might suddenly decide that it was all too much and have a nervous breakdown right there in the doorway so he patted Feliks on the arm and dragged him back inside, leading him over to the sofa.

“Dude, the Polish.” He said.

“Who.” Feliks said, staring unblinking at the person behind Alfred, and managing to walk backwards quite expertly. “Is. _That_..”

“That?” Alfred threw a glance over his shoulder. “Oh, that's just Arthur.”

“Alfred. Do you know that Arthur is a whore?”

Alfred swallowed. “Yes, Feliks. I am perfectly aware that Arthur is a whore.”

“Do you also realise that Arthur is a whore with an apparent concussion?”

“Yes, I do, thanks. That's why I brought him here.”

Arthur made a displeased noise behind them. He folded his arms and looked down, watching his foot tap the carpet of the hallway nervously and pretending like the blush on his cheeks didn't exist.

Alfred turned from where he was helping Feliks sit down on the sofa. “Dude. You can come in you know.”

Arthur gave a quick nod of the head and stepped through the doorway, his steps carrying him with false confidence, making his hips sway with practiced ease.

Alfred swallowed again then cleared his throat. “Listen, Feli, I'll tell you everything, I promise, but right now I gotta go down to the uni's med center.”

“Dude, It's called a ward.” Feliks said quietly, no real humor behind it. Alfred flinched, but appreciating it for the attempt.

He smiled, looking at Feliks until he met his green eyes. “Whatever, tranny. I gotta go get fixed up, and so does Arthur.” Alfred chuckled “But he can't go down like that. Do you..have anything he could borrow?” Alfred gestured awkwardly at the size difference between the three of them.

Suddenly Feliks' emerald eyes sparked, locking directly onto Alfred's.

“Do I ever, does the devil wear Prada? I'm, like, totally going with the sweater-jeans on him. Or OH OHMIGOD HE WOULD SO ROCK OUT A SKIRT!!”

Alfred stifled a laugh and stood up. Feliks' smile froze and shattered on his pretty face.

“Oh my god, Alfred what happened to your hand?”

Alfred glanced down, his stomach flipping at the rather ghastly sight of red, raw and broken skin. “Oh. All part of the experience, Feliks. Now, Arthur needs your creative wardrobe. Stat.”

Feliks collapsed back against the sofa for a moment, pressing a hand over his eyes and sighing deeply. Then he stood up and strode over to Arthur, peering at him up and down. Arthur unfolded his arms, leaning on his back foot and watching Feliks run through his mental wardrobe and colour schemes. Then Feliks grinned, and Arthur visibly recoiled slightly, a billion fashion combinations flaring in his eyes like a fire with lighter fluid thrown on it. The Polish student grabbed the prostitute by the sleeve and dragged him off to his room, slamming the door behind them, ending Arthur's chance for escape.

Alfred looked after them for a moment, then collapsed onto the abandoned sofa, sighing heavily and cradling his right hand. He closed his eyes and let his body deflate, his tired bones sinking into the cushions. The entire night played on a roll of film onto his flickering eyelids, a blur of violet eyes, darkness, puddles, fear and pain, then Arthur.

Arthur.

Arthur.

Shit. Alfred thought, for want of a better phrase. He pushed some hair out of his eyes and rubbed at the back of his head. What he'd do for a nice hot shower. And for the agony of his hand to go away. And some dry pants...And a shoe while he was at it.

He opened his eyes and sat up, hooking a toe into the back of his shoe and kicking it off. Alfred suddenly drew a sharp breath, a hand flying uselessly to pat his chest. His jacket. He had left behind his jacket.

Alfred flopped back against the sofa, gripping a handful of hair in a clenched fist, a frustrated noise forcing itself out from between clenched teeth. He looked over to the coat stand by the door and was grateful that Feliks hadn't thrown his leather flying jacket into his face earlier that night. He didn't know what he'd do if he lost that.

Probably go back and get it actually.

Alfred saw an image of those eyes again, and shivered.

God. He thought. You spend your life reading, and hearing about things like this. Even now, in school he was studying things like this. He chuckled. Hell he could even be a subject in his own lessons. I had no idea, Alfred thought to himself. That it was this real.

Alfred jumped as the door to Feliks' room banged open.

Arthur stood slightly awkwardly. On his small feet he wore a pare of soft, black converses. A pair of baggy, denim jeans, complete with zips and button-pockets lining the sides, hung low on his hips. And a dark, woollen jumper hugged his slim form, and loved his figure. His hair was combed and naturally unruly, his face flushed and scrubbed clean, and still he was adorable.

“Taa-daa!” Feliks sang, with jazz-hands.

Shit. Alfred swallowed.

Alfred stood up, mindful of his hand, and waited for the two of them to approach.

“I think I've, totally, outdone myself.” Feliks purred, admiring his work with warm pride.

“Yeah, he looks really great, Feli.” Alfred blanched and flushed, biting his lip, and wishing he could take the words back.

Feliks fixed him with a searching stare.

“C'mon lets go.” Alfred turned his back on his friend and Arthur's deep, green eyes, and walked to the door of the dorm. He toed his feet into a pair of clean shoes, busying himself and praying that he was not as transparent as he felt. Then he opened the door and stepped out into the well lit hallway. Doors leading to other dorms set into the cream walls every few yards. Each with a little brass number plate fixed to the face of the wood and marking it out as individual. Alfred turned back and smiled at Feliks, who leaned against the door frame, folding his arms across his chest and tapping the carpet with one bare foot. Arthur came and stood in the hall, eyes travelling leisurely across the details.

“Make sure to come back this time.” He said. Half joking, half serious.

Where have I heard that tone before? Alfred thought. “I will Feliks” He said, hoping his face conveyed the honesty he felt. “It's just the med ward. It's in the same building.”

“Be quick, Alfie.” And Feliks smiled at him as he closed the door with a soft click.

Alfred sighed. Then looked at Arthur and smiled. “It's just a few floors down.”

“All right.” Arthur said, then appeared to reel a little.

Alfred leaned forwards and grasped the smaller man's forearm. “Hay, you ok?” he asked. His voice wrapped in cottony concern.

Arthur blinked. “Yeah. I just. Feel a bit ill.”

“We'll get that fixed” Alfred promised, “hang on.”

They walked in silence down the hall, keeping their eyes on the end of the corridor. Alfred with his hand under Arthur's forearm, steadying him gently. Then they came to a pair of large metal doors, and Alfred pushed the button to call the lift. There was a soft humming sound and the doors slid open with a 'ding'. Alfred stepped in, guiding Arthur, and pressed a button that glowed happily. The doors slid closed again.

Seconds passed and Alfred and Arthur stood in silence, elevator music dancing through the air, and tapping on the walls. Alfred worried his lower lip and glanced around, then his eyes drifted to Arthur. Arthur was gazing straight ahead, his eyes half-lidded, and an apparently unimpressed expression on his soft face. Something stirred in Alfred's chest and he shifted on his feet restlessly, dropping his hand, eyes on the smaller man beside him. There was something inside him. It leaked out his pores and into the atmosphere. It saturated the molecules and atoms electrifying them and making the air buzz. Then it was drawn back inside his poor, worn body, setting his blood into that strange, freezing fire. The feeling was everywhere. Everything. He wanted to break it, for something to change, _anything_. He needed it to be snapped. He needed it to stop.

“Hay, you never told me your full name.” He suddenly said. The words forming themselves and jumping, suicidal, off his tongue.

Arthur looked up, the bored expression shifting to slight irritation, his eyes narrowing and the corners of his mouth turning down.

“Quite right.” He said.

Alfred looked at him, his eyebrows raised. “Well...Could you tell it me?”

The prostitute's face darkened visibly. “Tell it _to_ me.” He said.

Alfred blinked with intelligence. “..What?”

“Tell it _to_ me.” Arthur said again.

“Err, sure.” He grinned and extended his left hand. “The names Alfred. Alfred Jones.”

The irritation slid off Arthur's face and he looked at the American boy as if he couldn't quite grasp the levels of idiocy he possessed. Alfred's grin flickered and went out like a dying light. He lifted his extended hand and ran it through his hair.

“I jus' wanted to know.” He muttered quietly.

Arthur sighed deeply and looked ahead again. “I can't just go around giving out my name, kid.” He said.

Alfred's hand stilled mid hair-comb. “Why not?” He asked.

The disbelieving expression was back on Arthur's face. He met Alfred's eyes and said “Because I'm a prostitute.”

Alfred processed this, then let out an understanding “Ahh...”

He lowered his hand, and put it in his pocket. Looking at the floor he let the information sink in properly. It made his heart feel heavy, and his soul shrink. Arthur was a completely unique individual. One who probably had never had a fair shot at life, through reasons unknown. And there where probably many reasons. Why shouldn't he have had a good life? Why wasn't he in some position of power? He was smart, good looking, persuasive, enigmatic, sexy, -and nooooo, his thoughts where definitely not straying there. But...But.

That didn't mean things had to stay that way.

“Could you...” Alfred wet his lips, keeping his eyes on the metal floor. “Could you tell me?”

A few heartbeats of silence passed and Alfred eventually looked up. Arthur was looking it him, a ghost of something raw and vulnerable passing over his beautiful face, glittering in his eyes. Then it was gone.

He cleared his throat, and hardened his eyes.

“Arthur. Arthur Kirkland.”

Alfred grinned and ripped his hand out his pocket, forcing it into Arthur's and shaking it warmly.

“Yo Arthur” He said “The names Alfred F. Jones, it's good to meet you.”

Disgust tugged at Arthur's face, but there was something in his eyes. Something that was fresh and alive and hopeful.

He wrenched his hand out of Alfred's grip. “Idiot! You already said that!”

“No I didn't” Alfred winked. “I missed out the F part.”

Arthur blanched and Alfred ducked out the opening elevator doors, escaping the onslaught of verbal abuse, laughing.

This was what he was born to do. And if a few psychological walls had to be broken, and a pretence of idiocy established, then so be it. He would give this prostitute a second chance at life.

After all; what else was he good for?


	3. Chapter 3

Alfred gasped and sat up with a start.

His eyes darted about his shadow encased room, searching the darkness that pooled in the corners and hung like bats from the ceiling. All he could hear was his heartbeat, pounding in his ears and through his body. The rain, pattering against car windows. Somewhere in the room, he could feel him, he _knew_ it, he was certain. Watching. The fingers. The breath. The mouth sucking on his neck. He cried out and flung his hands to his face, swatting at the air and rubbing his jaw, convinced that a Russian spectre was embracing him from behind.

“Ow.” A twinge of pain sparked in his hand, zinging along his arm, and tweaking his back, he stilled to inspect it. His right hand was wrapped in layers of clean, coarse bandages, and bound by stiff straps and Velcro. Alfred frowned for a moment, before the memories fell into place.

He dropped his hands into his lap and let his head fall back to look at the ceiling of his room, which moments before had been a machine-built roof to a car. And suddenly the shadows softened and the malicious-eyed ghost of Ivan melted away.

Alfred rubbed the nape of his neck, then threw the covers back and got up, grabbing the pillow and leaving his room. He padded, in nothing but a crumpled shirt and boxers, across the small corridor, then let himself into the room across from his, shutting the door quietly behind him.

Squeezing the downy pillow to his chest, Alfred made his way across the soft carpet, meandering around stuffed toys and makeup, and stopped by his friends soft, safe bed.

He stood in silence for a while, judging whether the smaller man was in the midst of a REM cycle or not. “Hay...Hay, Feliks.” He whispered. “You awake?"

For a moment Feliks didn't move, remaining still with his eyes closed and the covers tucked right up under his nose, then he shifted and cracked an eye open. He looked at Alfred for a moment, then groaned and scooted over, the sheets rustling. He held the duvet up and Alfred dumped his pillow by Feliks' and crawled into the warm pile of comforting duvets and cotton sheets.

They shifted for a while, getting comfortable again, then they lay on their sides, facing each other, the duvet drawn up to their chins.

“I had a night-terror.” Alfred said softly.

“Hmmhmm.” Feliks mumbled, eyes closed, ignoring the American term. “So totally understandable. You've been through a lot.”

Alfred had told Feliks everything as soon as he and Arthur had got back from the medical unit of the University. Feliks had tried to put on his psychologist face, but the truth was, he didn't have one. Like everything he did, he was himself and put himself into his school work wholeheartedly. So when the mention of Toris had come up, his face had crumpled, and his big, green eyes had brimmed with tears.

Alfred had considered not telling him all the gory details, that maybe leaving out some parts that may have indicated that Toris was not in a place where he was safe, Alfred didn't want to see his friend miserable. But that would never have settled well with Alfred. He believed that knowledge, whatever that knowledge may be, was better than being in the dark. And Feliks deserved to know. He was sure Feliks had _wanted_ to know.

Alfred wished that he could be some form of support for his friend. That he could make it better for Feliks somehow. But he knew that there was a hole in Feliks' heart that could only be filled by a man that was probably far, far away.

Alfred sighed and closed his eyes. Then he wrapped his arms around the smaller man beside him. Feliks shifted again, returning the gesture. Alfred tried to breath steadily, repeating over and over the fact that there was no possible way Ivan could know where he lived, much less be in the room that instant, to himself in his head

Resisting the temptation to open his eyes and check that the shadows did not contain any glittering, violet orbs, he listened to Feliks' steady breathing, and drifted back into sleep.

 

* * *

 

 

Alfred woke with the distinct lead-weighted feeling that he had overslept. Sunlight burned on the fronts of his eyelids and a lazy warmth was flowing softly through his veins. Alfred yawned so deeply that moisture dabbed at the corners of his eyes and his jaw cracked. Finally he rolled onto his back, suddenly alert, and staring at the ceiling. Bringing his hands to his face to wipe away some of the sleep from his eyes, he then tossed back the covers and threw his legs over the side of the bed, standing and stretching, he made his way out of Feliks' room.

The hallway was empty, the dorm quiet. Alfred wondered what day it was and whether Feliks had gone out.

He opened his mouth and called his name, “Feliks?”

“He's not here.”

Alfred whirled around to see Arthur standing behind the kitchen counter, watching him with apparent disapproval, and munching on a plate of heavily buttered crumpets.

“Oh.” Alfred said, and meandered towards the coffee machine, rubbing his bound arm absently.

Arthur, he noted, looked adorable even first thing in the morning. _Especially_ first thing in the morning. Dressed in a shirt and boxers loaned from Feliks. His pale, soft legs almost painful for Alfred to tear his gaze from. And even though he did force himself to look away, his eyes just drifted right back. Arthur stood with his weight on one foot, while the other bounced and tapped against the cool tiled floor (causing other things to bounce). His feet where really the most adorable, perfect and elegant feet he had ever seen. Alfred imagined kissing those feet.

He blanched and flushed, turning back towards the counter and gripping the edge.

He did _not_ just think that.

Flicking a switch on the machine that offered Alfred so much joy in the way of caffeine and sugar, Alfred didn't look up and asked “Where'd he go then?”

“Uni.” Arthur replied, his tone unimpressed with just-woken-up Alfred. “He is a student remember? Heaven knows, he's your roommate.”

Alfred looked up. “Uni?” The clock above the cooker counted the seconds for a while, then “Oh my god! _My seminar!!_ ”

Arthur blinked at him, then made a despairing face.

“You can't have forgotten university?” He asked.

But Alfred was too busy panicking to pay any notice to Arthur's tone. “Oh my god, what time is it? I'm gonna be so late!! I have a thesis to hand in!”

Arthur put down his half munched crumpet and walked over to Alfred. He brushed the crumbs from his fingers, then grabbed Alfred roughly by the arms.

“Alfred, relax. You're not going to the seminar today.”

Alfred had to take a few seconds to come down off the shock of the shorter man touching him before his blue eyes cleared and the words coming from Arthur's pink, butter-stained lips started making sense.

“Wha..?” He said. His square jaw slack.

“You are not going to uni.” Arthur repeated himself, slowly this time.

Alfred frowned. “But I have to go to the seminar.” He said.

“From what I've seen, no. You really don't.” Arthur looked over Alfred's broad shoulder at the table of papers and books. When his gaze flickered back to Alfred's there was something deep in his eyes, something akin to respect. “Looks like you could take a few weeks off and still be top-of-the class.”

A hot blush spread itself across Alfred's tanned cheekbones just as Arthur released his hold on his arms and turned back to his plate of crumpets.

Alfred too, turned back to his side of the kitchen. He rubbed his upper arm with his good hand, skin pinked by the pressure of Arthur's fingers.

“But I have to go to uni.” Alfred said again, watching the coffee machine as it finished dribbling dark liquid into its glass body. The droplets of condensation rolling down the dome.

Arthur looked at him, not bothering to repeat himself yet again.

Sensing this, Alfred glanced up, then took a mug from the shelf above his head. “You don't understand. I haven't had an absent day since I was in high-school”.

“Evidently not that long ago then.” Arthur replied with scathing wit.

Lightening up slightly Alfred looked at Arthur again. “Hah.” He said. “Funny.”

“I know.” The shorter man replied.

Alfred actually giggled. Closing his eyes and shaking his head as he finished pouring steaming coffee into his mug. Arthur's eyebrows raised and he brought a crumpet to his lips, biting into it.

“Feliks told me not to let you go to the lecture. He wants you to rest.”

“Ah.” Alfred said. Then his gaze flicked back up to look at Arthur. “And you?” He asked, his voice soft. “How's your head?”

“It's..”Arthur half raised a hand, as if he where going to press it to the tiny butterfly stitches marking his porcelain forehead, but he stopped, and lowered it again. “I'm fine.”

“So...” Alfred began after the clock counted a few more seconds. “What do you wanna do?”

Arthur blinked at him. “It's your house, _I_ don't know.”

Alfred rubbed the back of his neck with his good hand, “Well we could, I dunno, watch movies until Feliks gets back. The lecture is only till one.”

“What an expert host you are, Alfred Jones.”

“Hay, I don't pretend to be a great host.” Alfred replied grumpily, secretly thrilling at how his name sounded coming from Arthur's rosey, witty mouth. “Ever heard of the Saw series?”

 

* * *

 

 

Feliks shifted the papers and folders in his arms and shrugged his shoulder to keep his pink sling bag from falling and upsetting his whole balancing act. Producing a key – adorned with fluffy and colourful keyrings – from his coat pocket, he fitted it into the lock to his and Alfred's dorm and opened the door.

“Hee _llooo_!!” He grinned, lip gloss glinting, eyeshadow sparkling, as he threw his paper-laden arms into the air, announcing his presence.

“Thank god you're here.” Suddenly Arthur was in his face, staring deep into his eyes, unblinking.

Feliks' perfect, blond eyebrow raised. “Excuse me?” He quipped, taking in Arthur's dishevelled appearance. Then Feliks looked passed Arthur's shoulder into the room of their small dorm.

The television was on, casting a flickering glow into the darkened room. Every single curtain had been drawn, every door closed, for fear of the open spaces which harboured god only knew. And on the small sofa, facing the television amidst the rows of cola cans and scattered debris of popcorn which spilled from an overturned bowl, sat a huge lump of quivering duvets.

Feliks deflated where he stood, several papers slipping from his grasp and onto the floor. Then he fixed a stern expression on his pretty face, drew a deep breath and yelled, “ _Alfred!!_ I _told_ you not to watch any more horror movies!!”

The mound of bed linen visibly started at the abrupt yelling. A muffled wail floated over to the two men, and tugged on their worn heartstrings.

Feliks hardened his willpower then stalked over to the kitchen counter, depositing his things at a safe distance, then made his way over to the shivering mountain of cotton sheets, his kitten-heels clicking ominously. Feliks grasped the downy covers with both well manicured hands, then ripped them off in one vicious movement.

Alfred – revealed and robbed of his safe, warm sheets - yelped and curled himself into a ball. Feliks sighed as he looked at Alfred. A nineteen year old boy, clothed in nothing but a shirt and boxers which where in dire need of ironing, shivering and whimpering, curled up on the sofa, in the middle of the day. This strong, muscular, teenager, reduced to this by the sheer power of cinematography.

“Seriously, Alfred.” Feliks drawled. “You're gonna do this?”

He was met with more whimpering.

Arthur joined Feliks, assessing Alfred like a difficult maths problem. “I tried to stop it before the situation got out of hand, but it seems that even muted, it's too much for him.”

Feliks bit back a groan and leaned forward, tugging on Alfred's shirt, shoving him out the way and stuffing a hand down the side of the sofa to grab the remote, and switched the TV off.

“C'mon Alfred, it's off.”

Alfred just shivered and drew himself in tighter. “No...I can't move. If I do, they'll jump out and get me.”

Feliks motioned to Arthur to hit the lights before kneeling down and picking up a few discarded DVDs.

“Oh god, Alfred!” He cried in despair. _“The Hills Have Eyes. Friday the 13_ _th_ _. A Nightmare On Elm Street_. Holy shit! The _entire Saw_ series??! Alfred, what the hell where you trying to do to yourself? Do you, like, not want to sleep _ever_ again?!? _”_

Alfred moaned and buried his head deeper into his arms. Feliks stood up again and placed his delicate hands on his hips, pursing his gloss-coated lips and blowing a lock of blond hair out his eyes. He then reached forward and grabbed Alfred by the shirt-front, dragging him up. Alfred gasped in shock and sat, blinking blearily at the sudden light, his lower lip jutting out in a pout, achieving genuine patheticness.

“Alfred.” Feliks said, ruffling his hair and slapping his cheeks. “Dude, wake up. C'mon. Their just movies.”

Alfred's eyes widened and locked onto Feliks', desperately trying to convey his point “No, Feliks. Their not just movies. Some are based on _true stories._ ” He whispered the last words as if just saying them was signing his own death warrant.

“Alfred, look.” Feliks reasoned, pointing towards the window just as Arthur threw the blinds open, flooding the room with mid-morning sunlight. “It's not even dark yet. The sun is shinning, you're totally fine.”

If anything Alfred's expression just grew more cryptic, his eyes more fearful. “They'll get me when it's dark.”

“Do you have _any idea_ just how insane you sound right now?” Feliks straightened up and walked back over to where he had left his fabulous pink sling bag and glossy folders sporting slogans and stickers.

“Anyway, come over here and check out these notes I took down. Everyone nearly had a heart attack when I told them you where skipping out on a lecture 'cos of an “accident”.”

“Notes?” Alfred perked up slightly, curiosity sparking in his eyes, and slowly he extended a hand, silently asking Feliks to bring the papers to him, god forbid he should have to place a foot on the carpet, for fear of dead, grasping hands with splintered nails and waxy skin that may shoot out from under the sofa the moment he set a toe down from the safety of the couch.

“Well then.” Feliks said, looking at the books in his slim hands, “I guess you, like, don't want to see my notes on today's lecture? I mean, if you don't want to come over and get them...”

Alfred blinked. “Huh?”

“Hmm?” Feliks glanced back over to where Alfred was sitting up slightly straighter, as if he had forgotten the American boy was there. “Oh. Just these notes. I have here. In my hand. Like, on the other side of the room.”

Arthur stood, watching the scene, and folded his arms. An irritated, slightly bemused expression on his face.

Alfred looked like he had been confronted with The Ultimatum of his life. Like a spoiled child faced with a decision, he shifted uncomfortably, made a frustrated noise, and bit his lip. His gaze flickering to the side, the carpet, and the notes. Sitting. In Feliks' hand.

Finally something snapped inside him and he unfolded his legs and stumbled over to Feliks, whipping the folder from his hand. He walked back over to the sofa and sat down, flicking through the pages intently, monsters and zombies apparently forgotten.

Feliks gave a satisfied smile, then cleared away the popcorn and DVDs. Finally he brought over the rest of his university things and placed them carefully on the coffee table. “There's, like, a bit that needs explaining in that.” He said, spreading sheets of paper and laying the Fraud book down on the side of the table. “This could take a while.” He looked up at Arthur, “You're, like, cool with us going over this for a few hours?”

Arthur blinked, then nodded, silently dragging up a chair.

“Right” Feliks started, pointing with his pink, glitter gell-pen “Now, this here, are the opinions of the Roman Catholics...”

 

* * *

 

More than a few hours, and several cans of coke and mugs of coffee, later Alfred threw down his pen and ran his good hand through his mussed hair. The table was covered in paper and pens. Notes scribbled in margins and books with bent corners and thick, glossy covers scattered across its surface. Feliks had thrown his hair into a stubby ponytail, a biro between his teeth. And Arthur sat with his legs over the side of his chair, a blue, hardback book held in his hands.

“Ok.” Alfred said. “Last thing, then I think we're done.” He picked up his pen again and tapped it against a sheet of lined paper. “What example can we use for the oppression on open sexuality?”

Feliks rubbed his forehead, frowning. Several strands of blond hair falling from the ponytail. “We could use Oscar Wild.” He said.

Alfred sighed. “Everyone will be doing that. We need something different.”

“Shakespeare?” Alfred suggested, desperation dragging his words down, and his eyebrows together.

“We did that for the last one. And everyone knows about the homosexual undertones of his sonnets. He _llo?_ 'Shall I compare thee to a Summer's day, Thou art more lovely and more temparate, rough winds do shake the darling buds of may, and summer's lease hath all too short a date, sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, adn oft' is _his_ god complexion dimm'd' ?" 

“You could use Peter Wildblood – from The Montagu Case.”

Alfred and Feliks glanced up at Arthur in surprise.

“The what?” Alfred asked.

Arthur popped his head round the side of the book. “The Montagu Case. Peter Wildblood, Lord Montagu of Beaulieu, Michael Pitt-Rivers, Edward McNally, and John Reynolds. Basically all of them persecuted and arrested unfairly and unjustly for being gay in a desperate bid of the police to bag Lord Montagu.”

Alfred and Feliks gaped at him.

“What?” He asked, bitterly amused, “You think that because I'm a prostitute I don't know how to read?”

Alfred closed his mouth and shook his head. “It's not that, it's just, It's perfect. How come I haven't heard of it?”

Arthur shrugged, turning a page of the book in his hands. “It's just not as famous as the Oscar Wild case. The scary thing is, it only happened around fifty years ago...”

“Well, where can we read it?” Feliks asked. “Is it a book? Do we, like, need to look up newspapers?”

“It's a book, though you could do both I guess. I read it while hiding out in a library. _Against the Law_ it's called. By Peter Wildblood himself.”

Alfred's grip on the pen tightened, images of Arthur curled up in a darkened corner, surrounded by towering bookcases, and a small, hardback clutched in his shivering hands, playing in his mind.

“We could ask the teacher about it.” He said, trying to shake the thoughts from his head. “If he doesn't know then the library should have it.”

“Hmm.” Feliks muttered, head down, and scribbling the name and author down on a post-it note. “There!” He cried, slapping the post-it onto a sheet of paper covered in similar scribblings, and pulling the pink hairband from his hair. “Done! I am so totally boycotting pens for the next _year._ ”

Alfred laughed and put his own biro down. Arthur marked his place in the book, set it down on the table with the other folders and soft-backs, then stretched. His arms high above his head.

Alfred made himself look away.

“Right.” He said, standing up and grabbing a coffee mug along the way. “I don't know 'bout 'yall, but I'm getting me another cuppa coffee.” His voice returning to his native American drawl, and a smile tugging at his lips.

“Oh! _Oh!_ Me too!” Feliks snatched his mug from where it had been lying on it's side, empty and forgotten, and thrust it into Alfred's hand. “Be, like, super awesome and make me one too.” He grinned.

“Jesus, Feliks. You can't just get up and get you're own?”

“Says the guy who was so sure the monsters where gonna come and get him, what, how many hours ago?”

Alfred chuckled and glanced out the window. It felt like minuets ago when the sun had been shinning through the glass. Now it was pitch dark, the occasional ball of orange light cast by the street lamps showing through the night like fireflies, the only thing breaching the shadows. When had it gotten so dark?

At that moment the dorm phone rang. Breaking through the brief silence, shattering the quiet and making Alfred jump, almost dropping the mugs.

He set them down on the counter and laughed at himself with Feliks and Arthur. Still smiling he walked over and picked up the phone, forsaking the caller-ID displayed on the glowing screen.

“Hello?” He grinned.

“Добрый вечер, Alfred.”

Alfred's smile froze on his lips. The earth opened up and swallowed him whole along with all the happiness he had felt just seconds before. The blood drained from his face, and the cold unmercifully clutched at his shaking fingers, and dragged itself through his body, leeching away all his warmth and the light from his eyes.

He let out a small sound. Incapable of thought. Incapable of speech, for that one moment, it was him and Ivan Braginsky floating in a void. And the eyes boring themselves into his mind.

“Alfred?”

Alfred blinked at his name being called. He looked around and stared at Feliks for a few moments. Feliks' face was drawn with confusion and concern, Arthur frowned at him, worry glinting in the corners of his eyes.

Again he made a small sound.

“Ah” the cold voice spoke over the phone, into his ear. “You are not alone. You have friends round? That is good.”

He sounded happy.

“Is Feliks there?”

Alfred's jaw worked for a few moments.

He tried to breath, then said so, so quietly, “How did you find me?”

Ivan laughed, delighted, the sound of it fracturing Alfred's broken, cold body. “Alfred is so silly, so desperate to elude me. You left your coat behind in the rain.”

“It had your mobile in the pocket.”

Alfred's eyes widened.

How could he be so _stupid?_

He looked at the floor, feeling it spin beneath him. He dragged his fingers through his hair, flinching at how cold they felt against his skin. How they shook.

“Alfred?” Feliks said, the worry in his voice spiking Alfred's heart.

“Alfred.” Ivan said. “You have such a pretty house. So warm. So many people. I bet you feel very safe in your house.”

“S..s..stay away from them.” Alfred whispered, his brain was frozen, his lips numb.

Ivan laughed again, then his humour died and his tone dropped like a brick in a lake, his voice dripped with false joy, threat underlying his tones. “I have left something outside for you, Alfred. Be good, and go and get it.”

Alfred blinked in confusion, then the line went dead.

Alfred stood with the phone still against his ear. The dial tone whining from the receiver. What? What had just happened? What did he mean? He blinked and realised that Arthur was standing in front of him, tugging the phone from his dead hand, with an unreadable expression on his face.

Apparently Feliks was up too, because the Polish boy was taking Alfred's larger hand in his and leading him back towards the sofa.

Alfred sunk down slowly. He raised his broken, bound right hand to his face and rubbed it with his left, touching the straps and bandages, trying to encourage feeling and warmth back into his shaking fingers. He tried to breath.

He couldn't breath.

He couldn't see.

There was nothing. Just him. And the eyes.

“He's having a panic attack.”

“Shit.”

What was that? What where they saying?

“Quick, Arthur, grab a blanket.”

Arthur?

Arthur.

A tiny spark of heat flickered to life in the centre of the cold nothing. It glowed like a pinprick. Distant.

Something warm was placed over him. It had a comforting weight. Covering all the cold spaces. Alfred sighed.

“Lift his legs and put his feet on the armrest.”

“What?”

“It'll help blood circulation, I'm going to check his heart rate.”

So warm, where moments before he had been so cold. Moments before...Something touched his wrist and drew it out of the soft folds. A pressure on his pulse, then his neck. His vitals? A pulse check?

The room flooded back to Alfred, as he lay on the sofa, covered in his squishy duvet. Feliks sighed with relief and ran a hand through Alfred's blond hair, sweeping it out of his face. Arthur stood slightly behind him. Watching. Arms crossed over his chest and his expression dark, his cheeks pale. Alfred blinked, his eyes scratchy. He closed them and breathed deeply for a while. Then he opened them again, looking at the ceiling.

“Ivan.” He said.

Arthur and Feliks didn't say anything. He didn't look at their faces. He couldn't.

Suddenly Alfred gasped and shoved the covers back, leaping to his feet. He threw on some jeans and stumbled into a pair of shoes.

“What? Where are you going?” Feliks cried.

“Just outside, he said something. He said he left me something outside, on the street.”

“That could be anything, Alfred!” Feliks said, grabbing his pink coat from where he had left it by his chair. “That man is fucking unhinged!”

Alfred threw open the door. “Well I have to see.”

“I'm coming”

The three of them looked at each other. Feliks and Arthur had spoken at the same time. Arthur buttoned a pair of jeans, then strode forwards and snatched a coat from the hanger by the door. It was one of Alfred's, and it swamped him.

Alfred glared at them both from behind his wire-framed glasses. “Fine, c'mon.” He said. They left the dorm, not bothering to lock the door behind them. Alfred broke into a jog, forsaking the elevator and heading towards the stairwell. He shoved open the door and grabbed the banister taking the steps four at a time, jumping the last few, then swinging round to face the next flight. Arthur and Feliks just kept up with him, the three of them racing down the stairs.

Finally they reached the ground floor, and Alfred threw open the door, and the three of them stumbled into the night. Panting, their breath misting before them in the chilled night air. He glanced around. The street was empty except for parked cars and glowing streetlamps. Maybe it was the wrong street? Maybe whatever it was had been left on a different street, somewhere around the dorms?

Suddenly the night was shattered and torn apart like rending metal by an earth shaking scream. Feliks lurched forward, sprinting into the middle of the road, pink coat flapping behind him, where Alfred realised, there was a body, lying facedown on the tarmac.

Feliks collapsed to the ground beside the body, blooding his knees in the stones and crying bitterly. He reached forward and rolled the body onto it's back, patting it's face and running his fingers through it's wavy chestnut hair.

Alfred's eyes widened and his breath caught in his throat.

“Who..?” Arthur asked quietly.

“Toris.” Alfred whispered, then he too bolted towards the man left like trash on the cold ground.


	4. Chapter 4

When Toris woke up he didn't know where he was.

But that was nothing new.

His eyes examined the ceiling tiredly, charting the cracks in the paintwork on the unfamiliar expanse of warm white. Slowly his eyes took in other details, such as where the ceiling met the walls. Where the kitchenas placed. And how far the door was from where he lay.

He blinked slowly. Breathing mechanical. Expression dead. His handsome face dimmed behind a veil of melancholy. He felt so tired. Not exhausted, per say, but heavy. As if he couldn't be bothered any more. As if nothing worse could be done to him. As if there was no point in even waking up and thinking; hay. Today might be better.

There was a sound of movement to his right and Toris automatically flinched. Someone kneeled beside him. He could feel their presence pressing against him, hear the sound of the carpet against their feet, even though he had defensively turned his head away.

The person seemed to hesitate. He could hear their breathing. Fast and shallow. Then.

“Toris?”

Toris had never moved so fast in his life. He spun onto his side and stared, his brown eyes wide, at the person on his knees beside him.

“Feliks?”

Feliks' pretty, pale face broke into a watery smile, it was the most beautiful sight Toris had ever seen, and so welcome that it made his heart ache back to life.

“Hay, Liet.” He seemed to choke on the name because it appeared to catch in his throat and made his eyes shiny with tears.

They where still for a moment, then Toris' hand shot out and was gripping the Polish boys jacket before he even knew it had moved. Feliks' own small, delicate hand settled on top of his. The skin was cold and smooth, exactly the same as how he remembered it. Toris couldn't stop taking deep breaths. Drawing Feliks' familiar, delicious smell into himself, waking up old memories like a fire given oxygen, flaring up with divine heat and washing the deep cold away. He pushed himself up onto his elbow, his right hand coming to grip Feliks' arm, while the left shifted and pressed hard into the warm space between Feliks' sholderblades. Feliks' squeezed the hand beneath his, and ran his palm over the thin button-down shirt covering Toris' waist. Toris' hand shifted again, sliding up to grip the thick blond locks at the nape of Feliks' neck, he flexed his fingers, felling the lush, satiny hair. Reminding himself of it. They inclined their heads in the same moment, and pressed their foreheads together. Then Toris broke and heaved Feliks' entire body against his own, crushing the other man to his chest and burying his face into Feliks' shoulder and Feliks held him back just as tightly.

 

* * *

 

 

Feliks shut the door to Alfred's room, paused, then looked up to the taller man and the prostitute opposite him.

Alfred stood awkwardly in the gloom, leaning on one foot and gnawing on the straps of his bandaged right hand. Arthur beside him stood cool and steady, though he gave off a peculiar aura, as if he felt guilty, or intrusive.

“Liet's asleep.” He said. The silence fell again and Feliks watched the floor, gathering his words.

“We need to tell someone what's happened.” Alfred looked up, aghast, but Feliks cut him off. “We need to tell a teacher, then we call the police.”

Out of the corner of his eye Feliks caught sight of Arthur crossing his arms tightly across his chest, but he ignored it. He could only manage one issue at a time.

Alfred stood rooted to the spot. Terror was creeping into his expression, casting a shadow over his face and hooding his blue eyes. His fingers scrabbled at his shirtsleeve and danced over the binding on his hand. The cold was creeping through his body. Chilling his toes and moving up to curl around his heart.

Alfred wet his lips. “I can't.” He whispered, his eyes fixed to a spot on the wall. He wouldn't be able to tell them. There was no way. They would just look at him with pitying, horror-filled eyes. They would see him as a broken person. Someone to be talked about and treated delicately. Always separated. Always alone. Completely alone.

He couldn't stand the idea of people knowing.

Feliks stepped forward, the movement causing Alfred's eyes to flick towards him. “Alfred you have too.” His tone was imploring and lined with lead. “Think about all the books you've read, all the experiences you've learned about. Didn't you always ask me 'why didn't they just tell someone?' Well now you know, Alfred. And you also know that telling someone is one of the best counter actions you can take. If you tell someone things can start getting better.”

Alfred looked up. His eyes where wide and fearful. “Please, Feliks.” He begged, his voice small. “Please don't make me tell someone.”

“Ignoring the problem is not going to make it go away. I thought you where smarter than this, Alfred.”

Feliks took another step forward and wrapped his fingers around Alfred's shivering arms. The warmth from his palms drawing Alfred back into the present.

Feliks smiled. “Well you, like, totally have the advantage anyway. I mean at least you, like, _know_ what's happening and shit.”

Alfred blinked and smiled shakily back at his friend. “Yeah.” He whispered, feeling heat flow back through his body. “I guess I do.”

Feliks slapped his arm. “There you go!” He grinned. Then he turned back to the door and rested his hand against the worn copper handle.

“We'll go talk to Teacher tomorrow.” He said, then left for his own room and Toris.

Silence settled on the room then Alfred let out a massive sigh.

“He's right.” He exclaimed softly, leaning against his bed.

Arthur looked at him through drawn and darkened eyes.

Alfred pressed both hands to his face and scrubbed it, pinking his cheeks. “I'm such an _idiot_.” He sighed as he dropped his hands. “I need to stop being so scared. The best thing to do is tell someone. I always said telling someone was the best thing to do. I can't believe I've been such a hypocrite.”

“No one can tell how they're going to react in a situation until they've been through it.” Arthur said quietly.

Alfred looked up and smiled humourlessly, then he hardened his expression. “Well, it's time I took some responsibility for some things.”

Arthur looked like he was about to contradict him but Alfred was already standing up and wondering around his darkened room, flicking on the lights, then he headed over to his bedside table and picked up the glowing digital clock, opened a drawer and placed the clock inside, then shut the drawer again. All the while he muttered to himself. “I can tell someone. I _can_ tell someone. It's the best thing to do. Then things can get better. I can tell someone.”

Arthur frowned, slightly alarmed by the younger man's actions. “Alfred. Are you alright?” He asked, his eyebrow raising slightly.

Alfred glanced up through the messy locks of hair that had fallen into his face, from where he was taking down a Paramore poster. “Hmm? I'm fine, why do you ask?”

Arthur stepped out the way as Alfred folded the poster so that it too could go into the drawer along with the clock. “It's just, why are you putting your stuff in that drawer? It's a little disorientating.”

“Well.” Alfred explained, “I'm taking steps to minimalise the risk of panic attacks and stuff brought on by my Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.” He grasped the handle to his bedroom window and shook it, making sure that is was secure, then he let the blinds slide down, blocking out the sky and it's darkness.

“Post Traumatic Stress Disorder?” Arthur rolled the words around his small mouth and didn't sound reassured.

“That's right.” Alfred smiled “Through lucky for me I seem to have it mildly.”

“Oh, obviously. However I find it difficult to imagine how a digital clock is going to induce a panic attack.” Arthur voiced.

Alfred thought for a moment. “It's kinda about distraction.” He elaborated. “I mean. If I wake up in the middle of the night from a night-terror then it will take me longer to read an analogue clock than it would be to read a digital one. And even the smallest break from thinking about..” A flash of violet eyes shocked across Alfred's mind like lightning. He stood for a moment, staring at where they had been. “Helps...” He muttered softly.

“Alfred?” Arthur's voice called to him, not even bothering to mask the concern.

Alfred looked at him softly, then took a wrist-watch from the top of his chest of drawers. He padded over to his bedside table and set it down, its small white face angled towards the pillows of his bed. He turned and sat on the edge of the mattress and counted on his fingers.

“Ok, so I've been having mild flashbacks. So far; nothing serious. ” He tapped his right index finger. Then appeared thoughtful for a moment. “Hmm, I do seem to have been experiencing intrusive recollections though.” He murmured, thinking of the eyes, and the sensation of being touched. “I've been having sleep disturbances, but so far I haven't been waking up screaming my head off and I've had a panic attack or two, that about sums it up.” He slapped his knees lightly and stood back up, smiling as if he had accomplished something.

“And I haven't been suffering from bursts of anger, lapses in concentration, hyper-alertness, emotional numbness, avoidance behaviour, difficulty with intimacy, guilt and self-blame, depression or traumatic grief and as far as I can tell I haven't developed any comfort-eating habits...Though I may need to cut back on the caffeine.” He grinned and flashed Arthur the thumbs-up.

Arthur gave Alfred the look that seemed to question his mental stability again. “What a commendable achievement for you. I wonder why it was I ever doubted the sheer stubbornness of your sanity.”

Alfred's smile slipped off his face and he wet his lips nervously. “Hay, Arthur.” He probed gently. “Can you do me a favour?”

Arthur looked up and narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “And of what nature is this favour?” He asked.

Alfred swallowed and tried to force down the overwhelming fear that had leeched into his stomach.

“Can you sleep in my bed tonight?”

Arthur felt his body heat up as his eyes widened. For some reason he felt betrayed and it was as though a knife had been plunged into his stomach, the hot metal bleeding into his chest. He could feel the threads of trust pulled to the brink of snapping. His lips pressed together and his heart pounded hard.

Alfred's warm hand closed around Arthur's arm. His sky-blue eyes where wide, trying to encourage trust and understanding. “Not like that.” He assured. “It's just, I guess it's better than sleeping on the couch again.” He laughed nervously.

The laughter faulted and died on his lips. Alfred let Arthur's arm slip from his fingers and he sighed. “I just...I can't sleep alone right now.” He murmured, unable to meet the smaller man's eyes.

Arthur brushed his choppy blond hair out of his eyes, folded his arms and looked up at Alfred, his expression slightly irritated, or defensive. Alfred rubbed at the back of his neck and clenched his jaw.

“But you barely know me.” He probed.

Alfred looked uncomfortable. “I know.”

“I'm a prostitute.” The smaller man pressed.

Alfred tossed his head and shifted his weight. “I know.”

“I'm also a man.” Arthur watched the students face intently.

“ _So?”_ Alfred exclaimed, throwing his arms out. Exasperation weighed on his shoulders heavily, but there was also fear. Fear at the prospect of sitting alone in the dark for hours on end. Watching the shadows and being continually dragged back into the past. Again and again and again. Each time as vivid and terrifying as it had been in that dark car with Ivan. “Look, if you don't want to then I understand. I do. I just wanted...” He trailed off and brought his hands to his arms, his breathing quickened and he had to resist the pressing temptation to glance around. To check the shadows.

“Alright.”

Alfred blinked. “Huh?”

“I said alright!” Arthur snapped. “Pompous git, I didn't think you where going to do anything. Your far to virginal for that.”

Alfred ignored the comment and smiled as relief rushed through him.

“Thank you.” He said the warmth he felt heating his words.

Arthur blinked.

“...Your welcome.”

 

* * *

 

 

When Toris woke up he didn't know where he was.

The experience was beginning to spark some confusion as of late.

He searched the ceiling, eyes quick to take in details. He noticed that it was still dark, the blinds drawn against the night and the glow of streetlamps. Toris could even hear the occasional car as it drove sown the street, floors below him. Toris blinked and observed the room around him. The walls edging the room where pale, some adorned with shelves of books, toys, and makeup, while a desk was pushed up against the other, it's surface dotted with pencil-cases, more books and makeup and piles of paper and files. He noticed that he was in a bed in the corner of the room. Whats more this bed was soft, warm...

..And littered with stuffed toys.

“Water?” Asked a voice as soft as the animals fur that was pressed against Toris' cheek.

Toris turned his head and gave a grin to the man next to him that warmed the entire room with it's sincerity.

He nodded and Feliks helped him sit up, propping the squishy pillows behind his back. The white cotton duvet was thrown out over his legs as if he was sitting in a thick white cloud, however being shifted into an upright position had not lessened the illusion of being drowned in a sea of soft-toys and TY beanie-babies.

He observed them for a while, then looked up at Feliks as if for an explanation.

“I thought you would like them.” Feliks muttered, handing Toris a tall glass of crystal-clear water.

Toris drank deeply from the glass, keeping quiet about how much the ridiculous motion had helped. He held the glass in both hands and smiled at the memories playing across his chocolate coloured eyes. “It's certainly brought everything back in full force.”

Feliks folded his arms over the top of the mattress and looked up at his partner. “You aren't sounding as totally psyched as I was expecting you to be.” He smiled.

Toris laughed and Feliks' smile widened. When was the last time he had heard Toris laugh?

Even Toris didn't know.

He shook his head, smiling. “You have no idea, Feliks.”

The blond man's smile slipped a bit, his green eyes dimming.

Toris handed the empty glass back and Feliks set it down on the floor. Then with a sigh the brunette man lay back down, lifting the duvet for the other. Feliks climbed into bed with him and wrapped his arms around Toris' lithe frame. They pressed close to each other, their legs entwining. Feliks allowed himself to fall asleep for the first time that night, and Toris revelled in the impossibility of it all before he too slipped back into unconsciousness.

 

* * *

 

 

_Alfred was sure that if he reached out he would be able to touch the fat, pale raindrops falling in sheets passed his face. But he didn't reach out. He just kept walking. Step. Step. Step. He shivered and suddenly the rain was drenching his body. Alfred gasped as he froze and drowned._

“ _Are you alright? You are not cold?”_

_Alfred turned to look at the Russian man next to him. He swallowed, frowning worriedly. Why was he worried? A strange feeling of anxiety hung over him like a like a satin veil. He opened his mouth to reply before thinking better of it. Instead he closed his mouth again, and turned to look out the window._

“ _I don't recognise this part of London.”_

_Alfred heard the words, but he simply continued to gaze out the window. There where some shapes in the darkness. Towering blocks of shadowy buildings. Their windows and doors just about visible if Alfred squinted really hard, and as he looked they shifted and twisted under his scrutiny. At first they had been the gigantic residential buildings he remembered from his home city in America, and as he watched they warped into cramped, dingy structures that sparked a twinge of recognition and alarm in Alfred's heart. He shifted forward, craning his neck to try and see above the roofs of the buildings. Alfred kept leaning until his cheek was pressed against the rain-speckled window and his breath fogged up the glass, but no matter how hard he tried he could see no end to the monumental structures. Not even a chink of night sky escaped the looming sky-scrapers._

_Alfred was chocking. The buildings where so close, so tall. He was boxed in with no way out. Someone was murmuring. The voice was all around him, echoing, pressing against his ears. Alfred stuttered and swatted at the air, trying to throw the voice away, to keep it from crawling into his head._

_The voice had a colour and that colour was red. It filled Alfred's head and bleached everything crimson. It burned like the sun on his closed eyelids. He had to open his eyes. He had to, before it became everything. He had to. Open his eyes. Open his eyes._

Open your eyes.

_Alfred's eyelids flew open and he was falling. Whether he was plummeting up or down he did not know, he was only awair that he was hurtling to nowhere, destinationless. Out of the darkness came lights. Orange like streetlamps. Red like car lights. Some where near. Others far-off pinpricks in the distance._

_A tiny spark of heat flickered to life in the centre...glowing like a pinprick._

…

_Who did that remind him of?_

_One light flew right passed Alfred's face and he whirled backwards._

_And Ivan was there._

_He and that man. The both of them where suspended in a deep violet world. They faced each other across the void._

“ _Д обрый вечер, Alfred.”_

_Images flashed across Alfred's mind. Whipping across the void itself, behind his eyes._

_Alfred's eyes widened and his breath caught in his throat. Pink coat flapping behind him. Panting, their breath misting before them in the chilled night air. The room flooded back to Alfred. A tiny spark of heat flickered to life in the centre of the cold nothing. Taking Alfred's larger hand in his. Alfred blinked in confusion, then the line went dead. forsaking the caller-ID displayed on the glowing screen. Facing each other, the duvet drawn up to their chins. His fair skin was completely clean. Feeling the familiar soft cotton shirt. I'd rather break my fist for a second time._

… _...Smiled sarcasticly. “Oh goodie.”_

“ _It's …...”_

“ _What? What's it to you, boy?”_

“O...n...........eyes.”

_Smoky grey eye-shadow._

“ _Alfred is so silly, so desperate to elude me.” Ivan was smiling sweetly. His violet eyes shining brightly in the void. “You are a very beautiful man, Alfred.” He informed him. “Maybe...I should break you, like Toris. He is beautiful too.”_

_Alfred considered running, but his legs wouldn't obey him, and Ivan's hands where on him. His arms where above his head and he couldn't move. Couldn't scream. All he could do was feel the pure white terror festering in his body, eating up his insides and burning him. Freezing fingers pressed to him, from frantically sweating palms to stock-still toes. They pushed against him until they stabbed through, injecting the cold, and nearly stopping his heart. A mouth was against his neck, hands against his waist, and everywhere they touched the terror and the cold intensified._

_Alfred still couldn't scream._

“Open your eyes.”

_Through the cold Alfred was abruptly awair of a pressure on his wrists, and suddenly his hands where freed and down by his sides._

_Like a movie, a picture took form before Alfred's eyes. It was small and gray, static and spots confusing it's image. Then slowly the images grew and cleared. The pictures growing and growing and colour saturating the shadows. And suddenly they where recognisable._

_Arthur was close to him, his lips moving and forming words, his hands holding Alfred's arms down by his sides. He was leaning and gazing deeply into Alfred's face as he lay. His face grounded Alfred, reassuring him as he lay there, taking the moment in. When the fear had been neutralized and extinguished, the coldness defeated and expelled. All that was left behind was Alfred, the wonderful presence of Arthur, and a comforting, dull haze of sleep flowing through his body._

“Open your eyes, Alfred.”

“They are open.” _Alfred's voice was heavy and sleep-laden even to Alfred's ears._

_Arthur smirked, his hand lifted and ran through the thick golden locks on Alfred's head. He shifted and settled his weight on the American boy, lying flush against him._

“ _You're not cold any more, Alfred.” He whispered, watching those blue eyes disappear back behind heavy lids and long eyelashes. “I'm here.”_

Alfred fell into the most comfortable and restful sleep he had had in what felt like weeks.


	5. Chapter 5

Even though the blinds where still drawn the pale winter sun shone through into the tiny little dorm bedroom.

Beneath the soft, downy duvet Alfred shifted and buried himself deeper inside the blissful warmth of the cotton sheets. The light was shining on his closed eyelids but Alfred was in that slow, lazy stage of dreamlessness where he was waking up, however his mind still clung to sleep.

The pillows had been pushed to the sides, the duvet filling the spaces, and his cheek was propped up on something warm and soft as satin. Alfred pulled it closer and it made a small noise and pressed against him. It was so blissfully warm. He had fallen asleep in his sweater and boxers, and his bedsheets where clean and the light before his eyelids was beautiful and everything was _perfect_.

At last, regretfully, Alfred's mind caught up with his body and he allowed his eyes to open a chink. He could always close them again and fall back into a comfortable slumber. As many times as necessary.

Just as he was about to follow up with this plan Alfred caught sight of something pale-blond in the morning light. He rubbed one eye, slightly more awake now, and took note of his surroundings.

And as sure as the sun rising, there was Arthur, face barely visible from where it was pressed into Alfred's sweater-front. His arms where brought up to his chest, fingers curled under his chin, and shoulder slumped forwards. His back curved slightly, shunting his hip forward against Alfred's and pushing his knees into a strange angle. Alfred could feel the smaller man's thighs where they lay next to his, but they disappeared from the knee down, and Alfred could see from the shapes in the duvet that one actually bent up behind him and the other settled against that.

How could anyone sleep at such an angle?

But he was _sooooo cuuuute._

Alfred inwardly groaned and his imbecilic behaviour. He rolled his eyes, then tried to keep from jostling Arthur as he removed his arms from where they had been wrapped around the smaller man's frame. Carefully, he slipped from between the sheets. Then he steadied Arthur's shoulder as it shifted into the space he had vacated. Arthur murmured as Alfred replaced the duvet as if it was made of glass cobwebs. Then with as much stealth as he could muster, Alfred left the room and padded to the kitchen.

  

* * *

 

 

A smell so wonderful that it could almost be categorized as divine brought Arthur out from the realm of dreams. His eyes opened gradually and he made himself awair of his surroundings. The bed he lay in was feather-soft and felt lived in and old. Which was a blissful break from the hotel rooms he had stayed in. Even the beds of politicians and businessmen only ever smelled of dust and the softeners and cleaning powders the maids used. Between these sheets he could smell and feel so many things. There was sunshine, cold mornings, cotton, dust motes, Feliks, books, and Alfred.

Arthur practically hummed with happiness, then the air carried another smell to him. His eyes widened and he threw back the covers. He paused to put them back, pat down the duvet, then straighten the pillows. But then he left the room and followed the smell down the short hallway, to the kitchen.

The first thing he became awair of was; colour.

There were beiges, and honeys, and syrups. Red cherries and strawberries and blues and greens of almost any other berry you care to name, and even some melon. Sliced banana, diced tomato, quartered cucumber. Stacks of empty bowls and multicolour boxes of cereal, coupled with cartons of cool, creamy milk. There were plates of plain golden toast, french-toast, and fried toast, and tubs of yellow butter. Piles of eggy-bread and pancakes. Delicate crumpets and muffins. Jars of jam, marmalade, jellies and spreads. Pots of tea in a variety of different social class, from PG, to Tetly, Earl Grey, to Duchess, and even Chai and fruit teas. And of course the pitcher of rich, dark coffee. A cluster of juice cartons in a range of different combinations and glasses where crammed into a corner next to a plater of crispy bacon set beside eggs, fried, boiled, scrambled, devilled, and omelet-a-fied. Then a plate piled with crispy hash-browns, set beside a bowl of baked-beans, and a plateful of a different kind of bacon that was less crispy than the first, next to a stack of sausages and blackpudding.

The second thing he became awair of was; the mess.

Alfred looked up from the battleground of dirty cooking implements, utensils and pans, and gave Arthur a grin.

“Good morning!” He called from across the counter. He was stirring a rather enormous bowl of what looked like pancake batter with the kind of reckless abandon that made Arthur want to ask him if he knew better.

However before he could Feliks and Toris entered the bomb-site.

“Al _riight!!_ ” Feliks exclaimed to Arthur's surprise. “Alfred's cooking again!”

Arthur blinked “I wasn't awair that Alfred _could_ cook.” he admitted.

“Damn straight I can cook!” Alfred piped “It's all American-style!” He added, to the Polish student's joyful whooping.

Arthur felt his eye twitch. “Surely it's not possible for you to _eat_ all that?” He asked in disbelief.

Alfred snorted and rolled his eyes. “Of course it's not.” He scoffed “We give the rest to the other students.”

“And this...” Arthur inquired as he grudgingly seated himself “Is a regular occurrence?”

“Nope.” Feliks quipped, snatching a Polish snack from a tin and munching on it with a curious 'momomomomo' sound. “This is just every so often. Usually when Alfred feels like it. Though he does usually cook the big meals. I mean, the most I can do is open a can of soup!”

Arthur glanced at Feliks for a moment then looked down at his plate placed before him. Almost shyly he looked up again and reached out for a pancake. He dropped it onto his plate and it sat there looking a bit forlorn.

A knife and fork where shoved into his personal bubble as Alfred collapsed into the seat by Arthur's. The Englishman took them and turned back to his pancake.

It looked a little strange-looking.

“Here.” Alfred offered bouncily. He turned over a bottle of reddish-golden syrup and poured it all over the fat pancake on Arthur's plate.

Arthur looked as if Alfred had purposefully sabotaged his pancake, he turned to the younger man, who just grinned at him jovially from across the breadsticks.

“It's great.” He promised “Try some.”

Arthur looked back at his pancake as the syrup dribbled down and created a glutinous pool on his plate. Cautiously he extended his cutlery and stabbed the squishy circle with as much poise as he could manage. He cut a square out, and placed it on his tongue.

Stars burst in Arthur's vision. Fireworks exploded and the sweet stickiness of the pancake saturated his mouth, staining the taste there. Arthur swallowed and cut more, the slices getting bigger and bigger until there was none left. Then he reached forward and took a few more, along with some egg, and bacon and sliced fruit.

Alfred's grin lit up his entire face. His eye's sparkled as if he found Arthur's bewilderment amusing. Alfred offered an assortment of different platers to him. Some where rejected, but most where accepted and seized apon with happy relish.

Feliks was going about things in a similar manner, but Toris showed a bit more dignity than that. He set a few slices of toast on his plate and smiled to himself as he spread butter on them.

“This reminds me of America.” He spoke softly.

Arthur swallowed a little clumsily and looked at him, dragging a small finger over his lip and licking the syrup off it. “You lived in America?” He asked.

Toris looked up, his smile widening. “Yes, for a time I lived with Alfred.”

“Now was the before or after you married Feliks?” the American queried.

Arthur was about to reprimand Alfred for what he assumed was a joke when Toris corrected him.

“After.”

Arthur stopped and looked at Toris, then scrutinized Feliks. Perhaps he had been mistaken and this effeminate, flamboyant, tranny really _was_ a girl.

Alfred turned to Arthur. “I know the 'technical term' is Civil Partnership, but I hate that. If people wanna get married, let them get married, it's all the same. Anyway, these two are the most couple-ey married couple I've ever seen.”

Arthur blinked at the American who was holding a plate of hash-browns under Arthur's nose, then looked at Feliks and Toris just as the brunette man attempted to clean his partners face with a napkin.

Alfred gave a toothy grin, looking back over the years he had spent with the brunette man. “Yeah, good times.” He commented. “Did you ever go back to Lithuania?”

“Lithuania?” Arthur felt a little lost.

“Toris is Lithuanian.” Alfred filled him in.

Arthur stared at him again.

Toris' smile twitched into a grin. “Can't you tell by the accent?”

Arthur shook his head and swallowed again. “No, I thought you where English.”

The three other men laughed.

Feliks put down his fork, which he quirkily held in his right hand like a pencil, and picked up a lock of Toris' chestnut brown hair.

“Do you, like, _seriously_ think anyone English would have this hair?”

Arthur chuckled and popped a forkful of egg into his mouth. “Well your accent is very good.”

“Thank you.” Toris smiled “Though English is my first language. I speak a few though.”

Arthur was about to peruse this topic a little more. But Alfred had begun to eat. It was like watching a hurricane engulf everything in its path. He piled the food high on his plate then tried to eat it all at the same time, in the strangest combinations. And when he was done with that, he put more food on, and began the massacre all over again.

“Good god.” Arthur spoke in a horrified whisper as he watched Alfred pour an assortment of condiments onto the heap.

Feliks grimaced and reached over the cornflakes to prod Alfred with his unused knife. “Dude.” He snapped “No one wants to see that.”

Alfred ducked his head and closed his mouth, though he did reach for the bacon platter again.

Arthur smiled into his forkful of food, observing the scene, and a small hollow feeling of intruding on something he didn't belong in or deserve, welled up inside him.

  

* * *

 

 

When Alfred knocked, a young Japanese man answered the door.

“Ah! Alfred, I heard you where ill.” He exclaimed, but somehow still managed to do it politely.

Alfred grinned at him. “Hay, Kiku.” He sang “Yeah, I busted my hand, but I'm better now.” He held out a plate of cling-film wrapped pancakes.

Kiku looked down at the plate in his small hands with affection. “Yes, I see. It feels like months since I last had your cooking. Thank you very much.”

“It's no problem, Kiku.” Alfred grinned. “See you later.”

“Alfred!” A young woman called.

Alfred turned and beamed at her. “Elizabeta!”

“Oh my god. Give me one of those, ” she demanded, eyes on the plates of food Alfred, Arthur, Toris and Feliks where balancing. “I _know_ you always make extra. I can't stomach the cafeteria crap any more.”

Alfred laughed at the woman's brashness and handed her a stack of zip-locked waffles.

“Could you do me a favour?” He asked. “Could you give these to Roderich, Vash and his sister please? ”

“Sure.” She nodded and he handed over a plate and a few more bags of food. Empty handed he stood and looked around. With not that many plates and bags remaining, and most of the dorms already visited, he stood and tried to think of anyone he had left out. The other students were waking up and poking their heads round the doors of their rooms, some chatting to Feliks and meeting Toris and Arthur, and relieving them of a few more plates.

A hand grabbed the back of Alfred's neck.

He screamed and threw his arms out, hitting the hand away and flinging himself sideways so his back slammed against the wall. The crouched there, hands raised, panting. His eyes flicked around until they fell on the wide, red eyes of a German albino.

...Who raised his own hands in surrender. “Whoa, man.” He reassured lowly. “Sorry.” Crimson eyes glanced to the bandages on Alfred's right hand. “Did I nick you there?”

Gradually the hammering in Alfred's chest slowed and calmed. He stood up straight and laughed nervously at all the wide eyes staring at him. He grinned at the albino and shook his bandaged hand.

“Naah! Just gave me a fright, is all.” He skirted the question and babbled for a while. “See ya, Gilbert.” He stuttered hurriedly, then he headed off down the hallway.

Feliks, Toris and Arthur watched after him worriedly, before saying goodbye and following.

“If I didn't know better” Muttered a German man to a Hungarian woman “I'd say that was more of a reflex than a shock.”

“Mmm.” Hummed Elizabeta. “Did you catch sight of his pupils?”

“Yeah. Hyper-alertness?”

“I think so.” She murmured. “Something happened to Alfred.” She looked saddened by this fact for a moment, then suddenly she raised the bag of waffles and whacked Gilbert across the face with them. “You idiot!” She scolded “You could have given him the fright of his life!”

“Hay! Without my expertly timed interruption we would have never known!” He cried.

“Don't pretend like you planned that. You're too stupid to plan anything besides the way you gel your hair in the morning!”

“So you noticed?”

And it continued like that.

  

* * *

 

 

Alfred stood in front of the large wooden door labelled 'Staff Room', breathing deeply. He tried to muster the courage to raise a hand and knock on the door. But he just remained frozen, clutching the coffee pot, and quaking.

Beside him Feliks sighed, leaned forward and hammered on the door.

“You two stay out here for a while, kay?” He said over his shoulder.

Arthur and Toris nodded.

There was a moment of silence and Alfred steeled himself for the inevitable.

The door was wrenched open to reveal a tall, brunette man with a lazy brush of stubble dusted across his chin and deep, syrup-brown eyes. On his head was a mop of thick, wavy brown hair, and his skin was naturally a tan, golden colour, even though it was the dead of winter. He blinked thick black eyelashes, and grinned at the boys lingering in the doorway.

“Hay, kids!” He sang, “Come in, come in.” Alfred tried to catch a glimpse of the outside world as they were ushered inside before the door closed off his chance of freedom forever.

There where only two teachers in the staff room. At least they were the ones Alfred was ok about telling...The brunette man was fine. It was just the tall, slim blond man which sparked a twinge of panic in his heart.

“How's your arm, lad?” Alfred blinked and looked at the brunette teacher.

“Fine, Mr Felicita, fine.” He said, trying to keep the tremors out of his voice, and clumsily skimming over the Italian pronunciation. He lifted the pot of coffee in his hands. “I brought this for the staff room.” He murmured.

“Ahh!” The teacher exclaimed. “Been cooking again, have you? Excellent.” He took the pot from Alfred's hands and set it on a counter top. He grinned to himself gleefully as he set about fetching mugs and spoons.

“We also brought these.” Feliks pipped, offering a plate of golden-brown pancakes.

The blond teacher looked up from a table of books he was seated at. His eyes where long and narrow, the eyelashes pale and sweeping. His eyes where penetrating, intelligent, blue as the Arctic ocean and just as cold. His face was as floorless as porcelain and pale as bone china. His white-blond hair was pulled back into a long, fluid ponytail. He stood, and made his way over to the two students. He took the plate in pale, elegant hands, then walked over, so it too could rest on the counter top.

Despite their polar-opposite personalities and appearances, the two teachers where almost inseparable. Besides lectures and classes they could always be seen, or found together. So, Alfred reasoned, despite how unapproachable this pale, beautiful man may seem, if he was as close to the joyful, bouncy, and informal Mr Felicita as he appeared to be, then it was wise to let him be privy to his experience as well.

He hoped.

“And what” the blond man enquired in a voice cool as an ice lake “Brings you two here?”

Alfred felt his heart speed up again. He stared at the carpet and tried to force the words out. “Well....I...ah.......” He swallowed, feeling the floor tilt. “I..I need......ah..a..I mean I...er...”

“We wanted to report something, Mr Schmied.” Feliks stated determinedly.

Both teachers turned to look at them.

Mr Felicita sighed and picked up four mugs of steaming coffee. He set them down on the table and pulled several chairs up next to it.

“You had better sit down then.”

Alfred made his way over to the small wooden chair as if it where his beheading-block. Each step seemed to bring him closer and closer to entrapment. He rested a shaking hand onto the chair's wooden back and sat heavily. He stared at his knees, where he folded his hands in his lap.

Feliks elbowed him in the side.

Alfred swallowed again and looked up.

“Go on, lad.” Mr Felicita coaxed gently. “You can tell us anything you need to say.”

“This is a university, not court trial.” Alfred blinked. It was the first kind(ish) thing he had ever heard Mr Schmied say.

Alfred took a deep, shaky breath then forced out the words in a legible sentence. “I was in the city for a while and this guy who's rooming with my friend came in his car.” He started. The words where quiet and Alfred felt enormously self-conscious about them. “At first I was going to leave- I don't like the guy, and I don't know him that well- but I hadn't seen this friend in ages, and I wanted to see how he was. He offered me a lift to see how he was doing, so I got in his car.” Alfred wet his lips and tried to force the images away. “At first I didn't think anything bad would happen, and we drove for a while. But then...” The images exploded in his mind and for a moment Alfred was lost to them. Driving rain, dark streets, and cold fear.

Alfred pressed chilled, shaking fingers to his forehead and tried to force the knot out of his throat. He couldn't speak, couldn't breath.

“Here, lad.” Mr Felicita murmured quietly, holding out a mug of hot coffee to Alfred.

He took it gratefully and sipped some, welcoming the heat. He cleared his throat.

“I didn't know where we where, and he said that was because I didn't know where he and my friend lived, and I let it go, 'cos that's true. But then I noticed that we weren't even near any buildings.

“He pulled over to the side of the road, and he. er..he said.” Alfred tried to breath, tried to clear the tunnel closing in around his eyes. He ran a hand through his hair and pushed his glasses up off his face, then decided he was more comfortable with them on and put them back, taking his time and placing them perfectly on his nose.

“He said 'You are a beautiful man, Alfred. Maybe I should break you, like Toris, he is beautiful too.'” Alfred spat the words out as fast as he could. As if saying them faster would make it less painful.

“Toris is the name of our friend.” Feliks whispered beside him. Alfred was grateful that he was sitting there, next to him.

“And then he tired to..ah..” Alfred rubbed a hand against his neck, trying to rub the feeling of Ivan's lips away, then he scrubbed at his hair. “He tried to rape me.”

The air was so thick that Alfred had trouble taking it into his lungs.

“But he was not successful...?” Mr Felicita probed.

Alfred shook his head. “I kicked him in the face a few times. He had locked the doors so I kinda punched my way out of the sunroof.” He rubbed the straps over his right knuckle. “Which is why I..ah..”

“Why you broke your hand.” Mr Schmied made the connection.

“...Yeah..” Alfred murmured.

“Is that everything?”

Alfred shook his head again. “No..I didn't know where I was so I tried to find my way back to a main road. And I found some guys..er..picking a fight with another guy. So I kinda stepped in, but he got a concussion so I...I..brought him back to the dorms.”

There was a short silence. “And I presume this man is not a student here.” Mr Felicita stated.

Alfred hung his head. “That's right.”

“How noble of you. And he was the young man who had to have butterfly stitches, correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Anything else?”

“Just one more thing.” Alfred murmured. “When I ran..I left my coat behind in the rain. And it had my mobile in it.” Alfred felt the fear close around his heart again, tugging at his gut. He pulled at his shirt-front. “The man contacted me and told me that he knew where I lived, that Feliks lived there too, and that he had left something outside for me...When we went outside we found Toris.”

“And he's uninjured?”

“He seems fine.”

“That was an enormous risk you took.” Mr Felicita reprimanded.

“I know, sir. I'm sorry.”

The Italian teacher turned to Feliks. Alfred could see his jaw working nervously, the muscles showing through his pale skin, though the blond student kept his composure. “And what's your connection to Toris, if you don't mind my asking.”

“He's my partner, sir.” Feliks replied.

Mr Felicita nodded “So naturally you would wish to ensure his safety.”

“At all costs, sir.” Feliks' face was completely sincere, his long, satin-soft hair sweeping his shoulders as he nodded.

“Of course.” Mr Felicia agreed.

Mr Schmied gazed at Alfred from across the table. Arms folded, legs crossed. “Tell me.” He spoke softly, but clearly. “What is the name of this man who was rooming with your friend?”

Alfred flinched at the loathing in his teachers tone, and it wasn't even directed at him!

“Er.” He cleared his throat again. “Ivan Braginsky, sir.”

“Right...” Mr Schmied's voice was still soft, but it harboured a dark aura that Alfred didn't want to antagonise.

“I'm sure you already realise the magnitude of your mistake here.” He stated, sweeping his ponytail over so it rested on his shoulder and chest. “I'm not going to punish you any more than your mind has already done. You're a smart lad, Alfred, you recognise your faults. However you fail to recognise the correct remedy to these faults. Instead of coming directly to us you embark on a fool-hardy quest to do justice as you see fit. Your first and foremost concern must be informing the authorities, at _all times_. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, sir.” Alfred whispered.

“Not only have you now placed yourself in danger, but every student in this university is now at risk. No doubt this incident will have repercussions.”

“I'm sorry, sir.”

“Our priority is ensuring the safety of our students. _All_ of our students, and you have put that on a precarious edge which will be difficult to come back from.”

“I'm sorry, sir.” Alfred mouthed silently, the backs of his eyes hurting.

Mr Felicita placed a hand on his colleges shoulder. His warm, syrup-brown eyes boring into Alfred's blue ones, comforting him.

“However.” Mr Felicita stated firmly, kindly. “We also extend that same curtsey to any guest our students deem suitable of us harbouring. We will contact the authorities and re-ensure the protection of this university. There are still teachers here, and our students are nearly adults. They can look after themselves and eachother.”

Alfred nodded.

“Alfred.” The Italian man called softly. “I want you to promise me you will never do anything like that again. I know you are a long way from home, but you are safe here. Some risks can't be avoided, but when they can, unless it's absolutely necessary, you take the safer rout. Are we clear.”

“Yes, sir.” Alfred croaked. “And I promise.”

“You must remember, Alfred. You are not the only person this sort of thing has happened to. We are teachers, we have seen this kind of thing before, and much more besides.”

Alfred felt strangely consoled by this information. “Yes, sir.”

“I was wondering, sir.” Alfred began. “If you could meet the man I met that night?” He enquired.

Mr Felicita smiled slyly. “And to what purpose would this meeting hold?”

Alfred wet his lips again, looking his teachers in the eye. “He's only twenty-three, and I don't believe he's been given a fair shot at life. He's extremely intelligent...”

Mr Felicita leaned forward in his chair. “And....?”

Alfred stared deeply into the brunette man's captivating, dark amber eyes, unique to him and his grandson only. “I would like you to consider him becoming a student at this university.” He announced.

Mr Felicita threw his head back and laughed, loud and long. When he was finished he looked back at the two students before him and shook his head, his hair falling into his eyes.

“Alfred Jones.” He stated. “Always the crusader.”

He chuckled to himself a bit more then sat back, crossed his legs and waved a hand. “Alright.” He called. “Send him in.”


	6. Chapter 6

Arthur's world is white.

And that's all there is.

It's a void. An endless expanse of blinding, clinical emptiness.

This void fills Arthur with terror. It presses against him and stretches out into the distance. It's in the air he breaths and as he inhales it suffocates his body and clamps over his heart.

It's at its worst when there is nothing else for Arthur. When there is nothing in his life accept the void. That's when all he can think about is himself.

He sees his life in that void. It's on reels of film, scattered photographs and scratched onto the whiteness of its fabric. Onto his eyes.

When he is in that place. When there is nothing but him. That is all Arthur feels.

And he dies.

He gets so scared he can't even scream. He stares at the images. Re-lives the mistakes.

Again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

But it's not only Arthur's past the void shows him. It's his future as well.

He sees himself as he is now. Possibly with a few more shadows. A few more scars. And a few more nightmares for his mind to cup and hold and care for. Because the nightmares are part of him. And if he does not love himself he will break.

But Arthur does not love himself.

The void shows him that.

Arthur is an abomination. A disgrace. Disgusting. Loathsome. Wretched. Hated. Ugly. Worthless. Something to be used then abandoned. Used, and abandoned. Used...

The void echoes these words at him. Sometimes so loud that they bounce off the walls Arthur can't see, other times they're as soft and quiet as the wind.

And Arthur can never stop them.

After all, who can stop the truth?

It strikes him. It festers in his heart, and then, when he feels its walls expanding and its claws digging, dragging, sinking into him, that's when it takes him. He looses himself to the never-ending plains of sharp white. Mind. Body. Soul. Gone.

It's in those times that his heart is laid bare. His thoughts unpicked. His fears filed, selected, then cross-examined in molecular detail.

He is insignificant.

What Arthur fears is fact. And it is useless to fear an irrevocable truth, but he fears it anyway.

Arthur fears his own infinitesimal smallness. As he lays in his cold, dark, cramped bed at night. Alone with nothing but the darkness closing in around him and the void engulfing him whole, he sees himself. He sees himself, and he is growing smaller, and smaller, and soon he is nothing but a speck in the distance. Then, he is not even that.

The void shows him this.

There is a way out of the void.

Not once it's taken hold of course, but if Arthur acts while it sleeps, festering in his heart, than he can put it off for a little while longer yet.

The escape is Distraction.

And Arthur craves this.

It can be so hard to distract himself, sometimes.

But it can also be so, _so_ easy. After all, this life has provided him with the perfect daemon. It's only fair that it also offers a blade with which he can defend himself.

Drink. Drugs. Sex. And stealing.

Some things he does to survive. Like the sex. It's his job. The only one life can offer him. It puts bread on the table, food in his belly, and the wolf from the door. And when no one is there to have him, he steals it.

The actual sex is not as affective as he would have liked. It takes his feeling of disgust, grips it, magnifies it, and makes it an innumerable amount of times more painful and revolting than it had been before. Most of the time he just lies there, feeling dirty, wishing he could scratch out his insides. And when the peak of distraction comes, it's over too quickly, and Arthur is left again, and the void is almost certain to swallow him.

Drugs are a less secure means of escape. He does not like them. They are too much like the void. They take him away, show him colours, feelings, and worlds. They lend him eyes, through which he sees life in a whole new light.

But those are the good times. The bad is hell itself. Second only to the void.

Sometimes he can't remember them. In those times he wakes up to blood on the walls, scrawled in occult swirls and dips, then he looks at his wrists and realises the blood is from him. He wakes up in places he'd much rather be away from. With, or in, people he would much rather be out of.

When he remembers them he checks his limbs are all still intact, his room still immobile and Arthur sometimes wishes he would loose his mind. Perhaps it would be better.

No. The drugs are not the way.

Drink. Drink is a happy medium. It buzzes through his veins and Arthur feels blissfully _alive_. Sometimes it makes him sad, but most of the time it makes him deliciously, deliriously blank. And he forgets.

However, drink has to be paid for, or stolen.

And we're back to square one.

It was not always like this. Once Arthur used to dream. He still dreams. However Arthur is swift to kill and obliterate the delusion, should a dream accidentally take form.

No. Arthur loves to dream. It just hurts. After all, no matter what he is; he is still human.

He used to dream of happiness. Of his brothers staying, instead of flitting in and out of his life, with every stay growing shorter and shorter, and every month away growing into years. Then more than years. Then never.

Arthur used to dream of a person. This person embodied everything he wanted, everything he imagined a 'good' life would have. When he was feeling childish Arthur used to dream of a person with a handsome face, a large wallet and a larger dick.

However when Arthur sat by his grimy window, or his small wooden table, he would let his eyes glaze over and this person would blossom into his mind, a smile blooming on his fictional lips.

Then suddenly, one day this person stepped out of his mind and into his life.

Of course, Arthur did not believe in 'love at first sight', life was too cruel for that.

But it was as good as.

And this person may not have stepped out with a smile only for Arthur, but Arthur didn't mind.

And this person may have been blooded, bruised, and lost, but Arthur didn't mind.

And this person may have taken Arthur's rule book of life and ripped out it's pages, burned and shredded them. Grasped his puppet strings and slashed them. Picked Arthur up from the dirty ground and taken him.

But Arthur didn't mind.

And the void had been left behind, there in that alleyway. Arthur wasn't going to kid himself. He knew that it was crawling back to him, slowly, but surely.

But it was ok. Arthur had something new. He had a brand new distraction. Something completely its own, with its own walk, and talk, mind and eyes.

Arthur had Alfred.

Arthur's fingers flinched away from the copper handle of the door. No, he did not _have_ Alfred. He simply knew Alfred. And that was more than he deserved.

And with his heart pounding in his ears, Arthur reached forward, griped the copper handle and pushed open the door.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The room was silent, save for the regular ticking of a clock 

Two men sat on a low sofa near a small table littered with books. The room was warm, spacious, and clean. A counter on the far wall, mugs and debris of lunch scatted across its faux-marble surface.

One brunette man smiled. Warmly, widely, with his hair falling over his face, and a spark in his eyes. The other man, blond, fair, and with a gaze to stop a sinners heart. Arthur decided to avoid incurring this mans wrath.

“Take a seat, Mr. Kirkland.” The smiling man said, gesturing to the displaced chair across from him.

Arthur glanced at the abandoned piece of furniture. He reached out a hand and pressed it to the stiff, wooden back, grounding himself, before collapsing into the chair.

“How are you enjoying the university's hospitality?” The tanned man asked. “Not being neglected in any way I hope.”

Arthur checked his throat and lungs quickly. “No, sir.” He replied, the words tense and thick. “I've been well looked after.”

If anything the brunette man's smile grew, the lines in his coffee skin marking his handsome face. He brushed some curls of chestnut hair out of his eyes, then held out his large, worn hand to Arthur. “Forgive me.” He smiled. “I'm Professor Felicita, and this is my colleague Professor Schmied.”

Arthur glanced at Professor Schmied, who sat with his arms crossed, icy gaze boring into Arthur. He quickly looked away and slipped his delicate, pale hand into the teachers'.

Mr Felicita beamed and shook his hand warmly. Arthur focused on making sure his grip was not too slack, nor too tight. He wasn't very sure of himself, but before he could contemplate the art of handshaking any further, the Italian man relinquished his hold. Instead settling his arms across his knees and leaning forward, as if Arthur was the most interesting thing in the world. His syrup brown eyes locked onto Arthur's, as if he were testing the air, noting down all of the details written on Arthur's face, probing into the corners of Arthur's mind as only a teacher can do, then committing all the information to memory.

Professor Felicita came to a decision on how to judge the man before him.

“I've heard about you from Alfred.”

Arthur's entire body seized up. His eyes flew open and his blood filled with hot poison. His jaw wired itself shut and robbed him of the ability to speak, to see. To breath.

The reaction was noted.

Mr Felicita abruptly stood up. Arthur blinked and looked up at him. “Do you take coffee, or tea?” The man asked, his eyes sparkling.

Arthur's jaw worked. “Ah...Tea.”

The teacher beamed as if he had been paid a handsome compliment. _“Excellent.”_ He clapped his hands together and begun pottering around the counter like an old man.

Arthur was given no time to think. No time to reflect on how he could hide himself behind his face. He had never been placed in a situation like this before, and suddenly he felt very young.

Mr Felicita sat down again. “It's not too hot I hope?” He inquired over the rim of his own cup.

Again, Arthur blinked. He glanced down at the mug before him. He reached out and picked it up, feeling the heat radiate through the china, into his fingers, the steam float up and pillow over his face.

“I understand that you are in a difficult spot in life.” Mr Felicita's voice was low. It made Arthur look up from the bubbles on the surface of his tea.

“Ah.” His face heated at his slow tongue.

“Have you been to school? Had any kind of experience in schools?”

“I..Er..used to go to school. Though never regularly. I ...I had to ...quit in favour of a job.” Arthur could not for the life of him look the man in the eye. It was as though he couldn't even glance upwards, could not even risk that connection that would throw his pathetic life and his filthy soul on display.

Mr Felicita nodded. “I see, and this job covers your life expenses?”

Arthur nodded. Yes, his job may disgust him, torment him day and night, rip his soul from his chest and break him, but let it not be said that it paid him badly for it. “Yes, it covers every thing I need, and I have plenty of savings should I need them.”

“Hmm...”

There was a moment of silence. Arthur sipped his tea and shifted his fingers against the cup, wanting to absorb more of the warmth. It seemed no one really knew what to say. Arthur thought of asking a question. Perhaps; why they where asking him questions. What they had heard from Alfred. When they expected him to leave.

“I'm having trouble on this essay a students written.”

Arthur blinked himself back into the staffroom.

Mr Schmied's voice was as clear and light as his face. He was looking, slightly sullenly, at Mr Felicita, pen and paper in his elegant, pale hands.

Mr Felicita blinked, slightly flawed by the sudden question. “Well...What's difficult about it?”

Mr Schmied sighed and sat back against the sofa. “I cannot make myself certain of how to mark this. Its an open question, Romeo and Juliet, however this person insists on making classic mistakes; such as thinking “where for art thou” means where are you, and she seems fixated on the fact that 'Romeo and Juliet is the greatest romance of all time.'”

“That's ridiculous.”

Both teachers glanced up from the sheets of paper towards the younger man before them.

Arthur huffed. “Romeo and Juliet where nothing but a couple of over zealous, hormone-ravaged teenagers who didn't know how to deal with a situation if it hit them in the face. Honestly, why they remain one of Shakespeare's most well known couples escapes me. The play attempts to show the consequences of not relying on your own judgement, and how outside advice may not always be the best approach to tackling a problem, however the public seems to have missed this message completely. Instead the masses bypass the obvious and instead jumps at the idea of a ground-breaking romance simply because they are young and they both end up dying dramatically in each others arms.”

The two teachers sat in silence for a moment, Arthur's words floating in the air between them. Then another smile bloomed on Mr Felicita's face.

“Indeed.” He chuckled. “That seems a plausible opinion.” Arthur flushed and wished he could take back the words.

The teacher set the mug of half-drained tea back onto the table top and sat back in the sofa. He regarded Arthur with a serious air, tinged with something Arthur couldn't put his finger on.

“I'm going to ask you something very important now, Arthur.” He said, fixing Arthur's green eyes to his. “I'm going to be honest with you so please be honest with me. I'm not sure just how badly life has treated you and you may be glad to know that Alfred never actually told me what your occupation may be. Only that he feels you do not deserve the position this world has placed you in, and I have several ideas as to what that position might be. In meeting you he hoped that he could prove a certain point, and indeed, it has been proven.” He chuckled, leaning forward and capturing the rooms light in his eyes. Arthur couldn't help but stare fixedly at them.

“Arthur, this university is a small one with plenty of places, it's open to a spectrum of different kinds of people form all over the world from all walks of life. Mr Kirkland, I would like to offer you a place in this university.”

Arthur's heart stopped.

“This meeting can be used as your interview.”

He misheard.

“I shall take you through the paperwork personally. Student Finance should be able to cover most of the fees, and you'll definitely qualify for a grant.”

He _must_ have misheard.

Mr Felicita's smile electrified the air around him. "If you work very hard you might even win a scholarship." He, once again, offered his hand to the young, small man before him. “Do you accept the position?”

Arthur's heart tugged in his chest, attempting to start again. His fingers twitched on the mug in his hands. His eyes where wide, glossy, disbelieving. He must have misheard. This man cannot be offering this. Life never treated him this good.

The words tumbled around his head. A place. In a university. Being offered a _place._ The first step to having a respectable life. Maybe even the beginnings of a _good_ life.

This man had no idea what he was giving Arthur.

The china mug wobbled slightly on the table top and Arthur clasped Mr Felicita's hand in his.

“Yes.” He said, the words sounding breathlessly determined. He was shaking as if he where naked outside in a snowstorm but that didn't matter. _It didn't matter._ “Yes!” He said again. He wanted to offer an 'Are you sure?' an 'are you joking?' a 'can you trust me?' But he couldn't bring himself to question a good thing.

“Excellent.” Mr Felicita said again, beaming. He released Arthur's hand and the younger man collapsed back into his seat. Arthur couldn't possibly find the words.

“I'll let you go now” Mr Felicita said “I'll send for you about the forms in due course. I'm sure your friends are waiting outside.” He winked, and picked up the cups and heading back over to the counter, humming softly, lifting the foil off the plate of pancakes eagerly.

Arthur stumbled to his feet and almost fell onto the doorhandle. He wrenched open the door and let it shut behind him. The air tasted different here, and he breathed like the had just sprinted a mile. His heart beating hard, his body shaking, and his breath coming quickly.

“Arthur!” He glanced up, almost surprised at the sight of Alfred, Toris, and Feliks, stood in the corridor.

Alfred stepped forward, Arthur almost thought that he was going to hug him, but the American man stopped. He looked at Arthur with wide, expectant eyes. “What happened, Arthur? Did they let you in?”

Arthur didn't know, had they?

His head span and he couldn't speak, so he nodded.

Alfred's face positively shone with the smile he gave Arthur. He whooped loudly and Arthur would have flinched and told him off if he could remember how to. Then he was being enveloped in a hug.

Arthur blinked at the feeling of Alfred's body against his. He moved to shove him off, then stopped. He was still dirty, right? This didn't change who he was. This wouldn't erase his past. It didn't make him a better person, equal to the people around him, the man embracing him.

Hope niggled at Arthur's poor, beaten soul, awakening it. Arthur hated that. Hope made you vulnerable. He should crush it while he still can.

But he couldn't bring himself too.

What if this was the beginning of something better. It may not erase his past, but maybe. Maybe he could become better.

Arthur's hands pressed to Alfred's broad back. He felt the man smile and pull him closer.

Arthur blinked. Breathed, and that breath caught in his throat, and the tears where spilling down his cheeks. His hands fisted in the fabric of Alfred's shirt and suddenly he was bawling.

Alfred started and pulled back, staring at Arthur's face as he sobbed and wailed, tears dripping from his chin and pattering on the carpet, on his shirt, on his hands as he covered his face.

“Arthur. Arthur what's -” Alfred's face fell, he pulled at Arthur's hands, trying to look at the smaller man.

“Alfred.” Feliks tugged at the taller students shirt. “Not to be melodramatic or anything, but his _life_ is changing.”

Alfred's brow lowered and his lips parted. He turned back to the man he still held, watched Arthur's body wrack with sobs. He leaned forward.

“C'mon, Arthur.” He murmured close to the man's forehead. He carded his fingers through the man's hair and rubbed his thumb against his back.

Arthur nodded through his tears. He wiped at his face with his hands, his sleeves but the tears kept coming so he gave up.

Together they trooped back to the dorm room. Alfred let them in and lead Arthur to the sofa. He switched the TV on, draped a duvet over the smaller man's back, and even gave him a tub of cookie-dough ice cream.

This made Arthur cry even harder.

Eventually the tears did subside as the tub emptied and the programs became more engaging, and soon Arthur was staring at the glowing screen, his mouth full of cookie-dough, and Alfred fast asleep beside him even though it was only just growing dark.

Arthur look at him for a while as Alfred lay against him, the duvet acting as a cushion for the young man's head. He shifted slightly, pulling the duvet away so that Alfred's head rested on his shoulder. He let his own head settle on Alfred's, feeling the boy's warmth and the softness of his hair against his cheek.

He let himself stay like this, with Alfred asleep, and felt a tiny glow of happiness.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In my imagination Schmied pretended those papers had an essay on, when really they where blank, so he could test Arthur.


	7. Chapter 7

Alfred snorted as he jolted back into consciousness. He moaned softly and lifted his head, rubbing his eyes with his his knuckle and looking around.

“Sorry to wake you guys.” Feliks was leaning down slightly, his blond hair falling over his shoulder, and his pale hands pressed into the duvet from his attempts at shaking him awake as gently as possible. “You have to move it soon; Mr Felicita just swung by. He said the police 've been called and their gonna be here in a few minuets.”

Alfred groaned and stretched, his toes curling and his back popping. There was a hazy glow of sleep floating in the air. He blinked and looked at Arthur, cocooned in the duvet and leaning against him. His body warm from them lying in the cushy duvets with one another. He had forgotten that they had fallen asleep on the couch. Together. It gave him a slight buzz.

Alfred placed his hands on Arthur's shoulders and shook him softly as Feliks walked away, pottering about and attempting to help Toris clean up the dorm and make it halfway respectable for the strangers that where going to be poking about there soon. “Hay.” Alfred murmured, tilting his head slightly to gaze into the smaller man's face. “Hay, Arthur, you gotta get up.”

At this proximity Alfred could see little details on Arthur's face that set that strange glow in his chest. He gazed at the older man, taking in the light dusting of freckles over his cheeks, the way his top lip was bigger than his lower, and the man's long, sweeping eyelashes. Arthur scrunched his face up slightly in his sleep. Alfred smiled as he watched the man's head tilt from one side to the other, soft murmurs escaping his sleeping lips. “Arthur.” The American called again. “It's time to get up.”

The Englishman gave a moan clearly in the negative and buried his face into the crook of Alfred's neck with a warm 'whumph' of a sigh.

Alfred froze, the feel of Arthur's butterfly fluttering eyelashes and the soft brush of skin from the press of nose and lips against his sensitive neck causing Alfred's hair to stand on end. He felt warm puffs of air ghost across his skin as the man breathed. In and out. In and out.

Alfred didn't realise that he had stopped breathing until the sweep of Arthur's eyelashes lifted and didn't fall, and the sweet breaths of air against the nape of his neck stopped, and came again with more control.

Arthur lifted his head and stared at what could only have been a pink blur, then as the circuits in his brain began to reconnect, he blinked and drew back.

Alfred was regarding him with the most peculiar expression, as if he dared not breath, nor blink, nor even attempt to look away from a small animal that may do anything at the slightest movement.

Arthur frowned in his sleep-befuddled way, dragging a hand through his choppy blond hair and causing it to stick up, revealing the multiple piercing holes in his ear and a smooth cut of jaw. He glanced back to the crook in Alfred's neck, then back to the man's face, which appeared even more panicked than ever.

Alfred watched as the realisation dawned on Arthur, and a heavy, burning blush engulf the man's face from the tips of his ears, to the tip of his nose.

“Ah...Ah...Ah...”

“Arthur, the police have been called and their gonna be here soon.”

Alfred and Arthur turned to look at Toris as he straightened up the dorm.

There was a moment of silence and Alfred felt the mood slip away like a cold breeze.

Abruptly Arthur hung his head for a second, seemingly staring at nothing. His salt-and-pepper bangs sweeping into his eyes, and suddenly he was standing. Alfred stood too and helped him fold the duvet.

He gathered the blanket in his arms and watched Arthur pat down the pillows. Alfred let his chin sink into the softness for a while. He wondered how Arthur felt about the offer of a place at his university. He wondered what the other man must have been thinking. What thoughts, worries, fears, hopes, where floating around his head now? Alfred realised how childish he must have looked, then turned and walked down the hall. He bundled the covers into his bedroom, then picked them up again and spread them properly over his bed. The police wouldn't want to search his room would they? He stopped on his way to the door, turned on his heel and inspected his room with a critical eye.

In the end the pangs of guilt proved too much and he picked up some clothes that had been lying sporadically on the carpet and shoved them into the darkest corners of his dresser. He toed a stack of comics into a slightly more presentable pile and glanced about his room again.

Catching sight of his desk chair standing idly by a poster of Captain America (he did not need to take down that poster, there was no way that Captain America could induce a panic attack!) he placed his hands on it's back to return it to where it belonged.

Alfred blinked and paused, catching sight of a splash of colour and white. He lifted the sweater he had been wearing the night before from where it had been thrown haphazardly onto the seat and ran his fingers over the worn jersey. An image of Arthur, pressed against this sweater, curled up against his chest, just the night before swam into his mind.

Alfred blinked, beneath his jersey lay a white tee-shirt of Alfred's. It was a simple Muse shirt with the band's name printed across the front in bold black lettering. It lay perfectly folded into a neat square of soft cotton, hidden beneath Alfred's clutter. He paused for a second and glanced over his shoulder at the closed door, then returned his sight back to the shirt. It had been the shirt Alfred had randomly pulled out of the mess to give to Arthur to wear as a nightshirt.

The memory of Arthur in his bed with him, lying so close to each other, drew itself before his eyes. Perfectly clear and coloured by the white dawn light. Arthur's beautiful face, framed by his messy hair, breathing quietly as he slept. Making soft noises as Alfred unconsciously pulled him closer.

Alfred pressed his face to the jersey, hunching his shoulders and shaking his head.

He had it _bad_.

He opened his chest of draws and those too joined the clothes in the shadowy recesses.

Leaving his room in a slightly blunted sight of disarray he dusted off his hands and made his way back to the main room.

Just as there was a knock at the door.

All four of them froze, Arthur still clutching a pillow, and Toris trying to convince Feliks not to hide beneath his bed from the strangers.

None of them moved and the knock had to come again before Alfred could force his legs to obey.

He reached for the copper door handle, fixed his face into a friendly smile, then pulled the door open.

Three police officers stood outside in the hallway. One had black hair, cut short to show his slate-like face. The other had brown hair, also short, but the curls came slightly softer.

However it was the man in the middle who demanded Alfred's attention. He stood slightly apart and faced Alfred side-on, as if he where leisurely taking in his surroundings and had all the time in the world. He was tall, though Alfred still was a few centimetres taller, and carried himself like a prince. His hair was long and wavy, pulled back in a short ponytail that rang something of the Romantic period, as if he where unstuck in time and dragged back all the Period glamour with him. A few locks of his hair had slipped free of the band and tumbled down to frame his fair face and high cheekbones. His jaw was square, yet still elegant, from his floorless skin, to the dusting of stubble across his chin. He blinked lazily and fixed Alfred with a pair of sea-blue eyes beneath blond lashes.

Alfred didn't like this man's eyes. They harboured something arrogant, almost uncaring, the haze of someone used to getting their own way. They bored into Alfred in a kind of hot appreciation that made him feel...

Then abruptly the man smiled and Alfred blinked at the sudden change.

“Good evening, sir.” The man grinned in a singing French accent, offering his gloved hand to shake. Alfred glanced down at it, then took it. “My name is Francis Bonnefoy, and I'll be your Officer for this evening.” Officer Bonnefoy threw his head back and laughed.

After the officers flashed their ID badges Alfred gestured for them to come in and Officer Bonnefoy crossed the threshold, pulling off his gloves and gazing around the room. “Now what seems to be the problem?”

“Err...” The man's sunny demeanour was catching and he felt himself beginning to relax. “Well I've been getting threatening calls from someone.”

Officer Bonnefoy's eyes fell apon him with an understanding kind of pity. “Rabid fangirls?”

Alfred chuckled lightly. “Not quite.”

Alfred began his story again from the beginning and Officer Bonnefoy folded his arms and leaned on one leg, nodding in encouragement and looking concerned. The other two took notes and gazed about the room, taking in details Alfred could only assume where relevant to police.

He was explaining the point where he had escaped Ivan Braginsky's car to the Officers when he noticed Arthur edging towards the door, eyes fixed on Officer Bonnefoys back, and moving as silently as possible. Alfred frowned.

“Arthur, where are you going?” He asked, breaking his gaze from the Officers'.

Officer Bonnefoy turned and offered the man a beaming smile.

A heartbeat passed and both men froze. Alfred watched in confusion as Francis Bonnefoy's entire persona changed again. His eyes widened and his mouth dropped the smile. His hands twitched and his spine tensed through the dark uniform.

Alfred's eyebrows pulled together, not sure whether to be concerned or on his toes.

Francis seemed almost disbelieving, looking the shorter man up and down. “Arthur? Arthur Kirkland?”

“Francis.” Arthur spat.

“What on earth are you doing here?”

Arthur's gaze fixed itself to a point on the wall and something stabbed in Alfred's stomach.

He stepped forward and let an easy, masking smile onto his face. “Arthur's a student here.” He said, a hint of forcefulness underlying his words. He would not let anything upset Arthur's new life. Especially not so early in it's birth.

A moment passed and Alfred prayed that the tension would relax.

It did no such thing.

An ugly smirk formed itself on Francis' face, marring his perfection and deepening his eyes. It was a wicked, evil thing that seemed alive in itself, yet born from the man.

“Oh?” Francis said slowly, mockingly. “I wasn't awair that prostitutes could afford a university education.”

Alfred winced. Feliks let out a soft noise. And the two other Officers threw looks of surprise and disgust at Arthur, standing by the door like a cornered animal with a spotlight thrown on it.

Alfred's smile cracked, but he cemented it more firmly to his face. “Well, he's a student here, so he's already taken the first step to escaping that job. Now please, can we just...”

Francis gave another cackle of laughter.

“Arthur! A student! _Mon Dieu._ ”

Arthur's face contorted with rage. His posture shifting from trying to avoid being spotted, to open hostility. “Shut up, Bonnefoy.” He snarled.

Francis' laughter quelled to quiet chuckles as he regarded Arthur. “I apologise.” He said, though sorry was the last thing that sentence sounded like. “I did not expect you to make in calls to students now.”

Arthur's face flushed and his eyes sparkled with anger. “I am a student here, Francis.”

“Oh, I do not doubt you.” He replied, his own eye glinting “It's just hard to imagine the twisted little whore I used to pound into the mattress picking up the books like a good little boy.”

Alfred's blood filled with icy poison. His face completely devoid of anything but horror. This man, this man he was meant to trust. He was meant to enforce the law, to look out for people who where in trouble. Yet Officer Bonnefoy was laying into one of the best people Alfre'd knew. He may not know the things Arthur had done in the past, or the horror's he had to live through, but Alfred knew that Arthur was a good person.

Francis tucked a lock of golden hair back into the band, continuing in a haughty voice. “Oh dear. Now that my _petite ange_ is gone, who will I call when I'm feeling.” He pinned Arthur down with his cold blue eyes. “Aggressively despondent.”

Toris caught Alfred's fist before it sank into Francis' face. The man turned and looked wide-eyed at Alfred, who was panting hard and staring at Francis with an expression of disbelief.

Toris locked eyes with the man before him. “Sir.” He stated calmly “Seeing as how you have been of no assistance to us what so ever, and displayed the most disgusting prejudice I have ever witnessed, I would like you to leave now, or I will call the teachers to have you removed.”

Francis blinked at the smaller brunette man. Then the corners of his mouth twitched up again.

“Alright.” He said, and made his way to the door, the two other Officers in tow, one looking guilty, the other with an air of indifference. Arthur turned as they walked passed him, and Officer Francis Bonnefoy stopped by the open door, glancing back. “Though I hope you realise that I shall report back as following up a hoax call, and I shall call the other stations to warn them not to fall for the claims of attempted rape and stalking, as it's simply four university students fucking around.”

And with that, he was gone.

Alfred pointed at the door and turned to his friends. “He can't do that.” he said. “He can't _do_ that!”

“Alfred!” Toris snapped “Calm down, I'm going to get Mr Felicita.” and Toris left the dorm.

“It's alright, Alfred, this will get sorted.” Feliks reassured, though he seemed to be shaking slightly in the aftermath.

Alfred looked around. “Arthur?” He called, but the smaller man had gone somewhere.

Alfred stamped on the little nagging sensation of worry before it could grow and set about checking the rooms. He opened the door to Feliks' room and called “Arthur?” Then he ducked into his own and called the man's name again. “Arthur?”

Alfred shut the door and turned to the last room in the dorm. He walked down the short hallway and stopped by the closed door. Beyond he could hear someone singing softly to themselves.

“You keep sayin' you got something for me.

Something you call love, but confess.

You've been messin' where you shouldn't have been messin'

and now someone else is getting' all your best.”

Alfred opened the door. Arthur was sitting on the edge of the bath, one of his thigh-length, steel-tipped boots leaning against his leg, the other was on his arm as he ran a cloth over its leather.

“These boots are made for walkin'

and that's just what they'll do.

One of these days these boots are gonna

walk all over you.”

Arthur looked up, his beautiful green eyes dim. Alfred remembered that day, only a few days ago, where he had found Arthur, talked to him in that alleyway. His eyes had been dim just like they where now.

“I'm sorry, Alfred.” He said softly.

Alfred flinched at how sad that voice was. How acceptant. It made his skin crawl with the wrongness he felt. Where had the man's assertiveness gone? Where was his brash defiance to society? Had it all fled him, died with the poison dripping from Bonnefoy's lips? “For what?” He asked.

“For being there.” Arthur replied simply. “I shouldn't have been there.”

Alfred didn't like the way Arthur's eyes remained fixed to his, as if he was completely set in his thoughts, that he believed them and to him they where truth. “That's ridiculous.” Alfred said firmly, setting his mouth in a thin line. He came forward and sat by Arthur, close enough so their arms pressed against one another, skin against skin. “It was them who were wrong.” Alfred couldn't find the words that summed up just how evil that experience had seemed. He wondered how much time and sunshine those rooms would have to go through before the shadows were finally chased from it.

Arthur sighed and looked up at the white ceiling of the bathroom, tracing it's patterns, arms resting between his knees, back curved. “But he's right. I don't belong here.”

Alfred grabbed Arthur by the arms, forcing him around. “That's bullshit and you know it.” He snapped. “Everyone deserves a chance.”

Arthur wouldn't meet his eyes. He was gazing off into the distance, passed the sink, to something Alfred couldn't see. “But life put me there.” He murmured.

Alfred was loosing him. He couldn't believe that all the hard work they had put in, the trials they had faced to get Arthur his chance, a chance that he had gotten, where to be undone, unravelled by the words of one haughty man.

Alfred shook Arthur's arms, attempting to keep him in the present, calloused thumbs trying to rub life back into the man. “But you're _here_ now, Arthur!” He insisted, squeezing his arms as if to reinforce that fact.“You have your chance to make something of yourself, let the world know about what _you_ have to contribute to it!” Alfred's blue eyes flickered between Arthur's green ones, searching for that spark, that determination. That inspiration.

Arthur's eyes finally slipped back to Alfred's and something tugged viscously in Alfred's gut when he saw that the glimmer, the spark that had appeared in those green depths that day in the elevator, wasn't there any more.

He tensed his stomach, fighting against the tugs, attempting to keep the bonds together, sitting up straighter and leaning closer to Arthur.“And what if I was never meant to have that chance. What if, by being here, I've taken someone else's chance. There's one less place in this university because of me.”

Alfred looked lost for a moment. What could he say? Just how deeply did Arthur believe this? How far had Arthur's opinion of himself fallen? He looked down at the boots. One still on Arthur's arm. He let go of Arthur and took hold of the cold leather, yanking it off as Arthur cried out in surprise, and throwing the shoes into the corner of the room.

He steeled himself quickly, praying that his lapse in certainty hadn't allowed Arthur's chance to slip through his fingers. “Arthur.” He said, accent heavy, he rubbed small circles into the skin of Arthur's arms. “We make our own way in this world, and if anyone is worthy of a place in it, it's you.”

Time passed and they sat there, Alfred desperately trying to save the pieces of Arthur he had put back together, and Arthur, though falling apart, was strangely calm.

Arthur looked up and met Alfred's eyes. He smiled and Alfred lost him.

“But the world doesn't want me, Alfred.” He said softly, as if Alfred was the one in need of comfort. “It never wanted me when I was born, growing up, and it will never want me when I grow older, and when I die there will be nothing.” Arthur's eyes flickered to the side, where the door was slightly ajar. He fancied he could practically _see_ The Void, hiding in the shadows of the hallway. It had finally caught back up with him. “My family never wanted me, and everything I've ever had has gone.” He drew himself up. Bold to the last. “The world would never want to listen to someone who has a past like mine, I have moved on, Alfred. The only people who want me are the one's who need a quick fuck with an emotionless shell. Find someone else to save."

Alfred grit his teeth. “Fuck that, Arthur.” He glared “That's not true. You've only been here a few days and the people who've met you like you. They love you, Arthur, they've accepted you. They _want_ you to be here! _I_ want you!”

Arthur gasped and Alfred realised how close they had gotten when he felt Arthur's breath ghost across his lips.

Arthur's features had blurred, so Alfred couldn't see his expression. If he had, he didn't know if he would have been brave enough to continue.

Alfred blinked slowly, once, twice, then let his eyelids slip closed as he pressed his lips to Arthur's.

Arthur gasped, the noise coming out as a surprised mewl. Alfred felt the smouldering fire in his chest explode into life, roaring through him and twisting through his limbs. He wrapped his arms around Arthur's back, one hand coming up to card through his hair.

Alfred wanted to show Arthur affection, care, and security. He wanted to show him that people cared. People wanted him for more than sex, they wanted him for love, words, laughter, tears. He wanted days together in sun-drenched parks, he wanted the smell of Arthur in the morning, and scathing barbs in corridors. Alfred wanted advice on shoes and kisses whenever he felt like it. He wanted topics above steaming coffee cups in café windows; they wanted him for him.

Alfred wanted him. He wanted Arthur.

He had never kissed anyone this seriously before. As jokes, kisses among friends, under mistletoe. But never with someone who made him feel this alive. With someone he would fight anyone for. With someone he wanted to be happy above all others.

Alfred was determined to show Arthur what he deserved. He deepened the kiss, fitting their mouths more firmly together. He let that determination lace his lips. He opened his mouth slightly, opening Arthur's, and moved his lips against the other man's. The satin softness of Arthur's lips caused sparks to erupt in Alfred's mind. Arthur's shallow breaths confused themselves with Alfred's, mingling together. Alfred worked Arthur's lips under his own. Kissing them. Pillowing his mouth over them. Thrilling at how he felt. They where damp and soft and Alfred never wanted to stop kissing him.

He pulled Arthur closer and touched his tongue to Arthur's lip, tasting him, then slid it gently into Arthur's mouth, a moan was drawn after it. Arthur's mouth was hot and wet and Arthur's taste was addictive. Arthur's arm suddenly slammed into his back, his hand gripped the back of his shirt in a tight fist.

Alfred kissed Arthur for a few more delicious moments, then broke away.

Their faces stayed close and Alfred couldn't help but kiss those pink, soft lips one more time. Or two. Or three.

Alfred drew further back and looked at Arthur, all the love, all the affection, the caring he tried to convey through his eyes to the man his arms were wrapped around.

Arthur looked at him with wide, clear eyes. He breathed quickly, one arm to his chest, the other still fisted in Alfred's shirt with a grip of steel.

“Alfred!” A call came from down the hall. “Mr Felicita and Mr Schmied are here!” Alfred looked up, then looked back to Arthur. He squeezed Arthur's arms reassuringly.

“This will be sorted out, Ok?” He said.

Then he turned and bolted down the hall. The two teachers looked furious, even Mr Felicita. That was just scary.

Feliks was speaking quickly and loudly, gesticulating wildly at the teachers, while Toris tried to calm him down and repeated what his partner said with more understandable words.

Alfred chipped in his own parts of what had just happened, and by the end of it the teachers looked as if they would break something.

“This is unforgivable.” Mr Felicita growled “I'm going back to the staffroom. The other teachers with be informed.”

Mr Schmied faced the small group of students, his calm air unbroken “The situation is still under control. ” He said, then turned and followed the other teacher out of the room.

They where silent for a moment then Feliks spoke softly. “What's going to happen now?”

Toris threw his arm around Feliks' shoulders “We go to sleep now.” He said authoritatively “Then we get up tomorrow, attend lectures, write essays” He gave his partner, and his friend a hard look “And look after eachother.”

“Good night, Alfred.”

“Good night, Toris.”

Feliks stared forward suddenly and wrapped his arms around Alfred's waist. Then he let go and flashed Alfred a confident smirk. Taking Toris' hand, he led the brunette man to his room.

Alfred sighed, then headed to the kitchen. He leaned his head against the wall as he waited for the machine to make him a precious cup of coffee.

With the police gone what was left to stop Ivan? And what about Francis' threat?

Alfred shook his head and walked over to the coffee machine, staring at it so intensely that it almost bubbled under his gaze. The thoughts, the questions, the worries swirled around his mind, each one echoing in his ears. He blinked and frowned away the questions.

Thinking to much about what-if's was just going to set him off again, and he didn't need that.

Arthur suddenly came to the front of his mind. He beautiful, pale face, his wide green eyes, those pink, soft, kissable lips.

He had kissed him. Alfred didn't even know if Arthur wanted to do things like that with him. For all he knew, Arthur might just think he was using him.

Alfred left the coffee machine, it's little red light still glowing, and ran back to the bathroom.

Of course it was empty, he couldn't expect Arthur to just stay where he was.

Alfred turned to head towards his bedroom when his eyes fell on the corner of the bathroom.

There was nothing there. It was empty.

Alfred frowned, then his eyes flew wide open.

He turned and headed towards his bedroom door, his steps long. Just because the boots weren't there any more didn't mean he should assume the worst. It didn't mean...

Alfred came halt. His white bedroom door before him. He set his hand on the handle and turned it, pushing the door open.

It was empty.

Alfred stepped in, just to make sure, he looked around the dark room, then blinked as his foot sant into something soft and made of cotton. He looked down. Then he bent over, picking the shirt up.

It was the shirt Arthur had been wearing.

Alfred cried out and bolted from the room. He slammed his fist against the door of Feliks' bedroom and threw the door open.

The two men blinked groggily at him, then their eyes widened as they took in his panicked expression.

Alfred waved the shirt at them. Arthur's shirt.

“Arthur's gone!”


	8. Chapter 8

Idiots. All of them.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid _stupid stupidstupidstupidSTUPID._

Arthur clutched at his head and didn't know whether he was cursing Francis, Alfred or himself.

He decided it was all of them.

The room was dark, the carpet soft under his naked feet. He pressed his fingers through his hair. He couldn't relax. He couldn't get away from it. Couldn't chase away the cyclone of thoughts. In this very room there was no way to escape; everything reflected Alfred.

He made to fling himself down on the bed, but it screamed memories of soft dawns and happy, warm arms, so Arthur veered away. He couldn't slam his head against the dresser, it had Alfred's heavy, masculine watch, stupidly facing the bed. He couldn't kick the walls, Alfred's stupid, gay poster of Captain America stood proudly, stuck there. He ended up spinning and pacing across the dorm bedroom, one way, then the other.

Arthur's hands pounded back onto his head, his face twisted.

Arthur stopped. He looked at his own chest. The movement of raising his arms had caused the soft, cotton fabric to drag across his skin.

Alfred's shirt.

Arthur took hold of it and struggled to rip it from his body, wiggling it over his arms and yanking it roughly off his head as if it burned, not stopping until it had been thrown to the ground. He stared at it as if it might lunge up and bite him. Breath coming ragged, wide-eyed.

Arthur slumped, his shoulders curving in on himself. The quiet veiling over the room, strained by his silent raging, but unbroken.

Stupid Francis with his stupid wealthy family and stupid perfect education.

Arthur drew a lingering, shuddering breath, then looked up, eyes sharp with clarity.

Beyond the dark room, through the wood of the door Arthur could catch snatches of muffled conversation as it floated to him from across the small hall and cosy rooms, through walls to where he stood in the darkness.

The decision had already been made in his head. It had been made as soon as the words had left Francis Bonnefoy's lips.

He hated Francis Bonnefoy. Hated the man's rich clothes and satin sheets. He hated the dismissive wave of his hand and quirk of his lips. He hated the memories of those dreaded phone calls.

He let his hands go to the jeans slung low on his hips, his borrowed jeans. He snapped the fasten and unzipped them, pulling them off. He stepped out of the underwear and left it all in a mess on the floor.

With a lazy air born of routine Arthur searched yet another bedroom for his clothes.

He found them stuffed in the very bottom of Alfred's closet, as if the boy hadn't known what to do with them.

The slide of leather over his skin drew a strange reaction from Arthur. He wanted to pull it all off again, lie naked on Alfred's floor and just breathe him in, but it also felt comforting in the most subtly morbid sense, as if he where putting clothes on for the first time in months. It was something he could understand.

Arthur stood and listened again, catching the slam of a door. He moved in the dark to the door of Alfred's bedroom and let his hand hover just above the handle. He heard Toris and Feliks return to their room. They paused outside their door, talking softly, then went in. Arthur waited a few more seconds, then eased the door open silently.

The hall was clear, he stared up the hall, the end room was empty, but the sound of the coffee machine bubbling in the kitchen confirmed Alfred's position.

Arthur slipped out like the shadows that ran across the walls, cast by the passing of cars. His eyes remained fixed on the end of the hall, his ears keen to any noise. He eased himself backwards, bare feet placed one, then the next. He reached behind him, listened, then pushed the door to the bathroom open.

He went straight for the boots lying in the corner of the room, emanating all the grace and appeal of a dagger.

He picked them up, running a hand over the leather, then slipped them on his feet, pulling them up his leg, then drawing the zip up all the way to the top.

Reacquainting himself with the leather as he had the rest of his clothes Arthur leaned back on the pointy heels, then forward again on his toes, he tapped on steel-tipped toe against the tiles of the bathroom floor, snapped his heels together -military style- then turned neatly back to the hall.

With the grace and ease he had gained from the days and nights he had seen, leaving homes, hotels and rooms with a pocket full of cash, never checks, Arthur walked through the hall, hips swaying, steps silent.

When he reached the main room Arthur resisted the urge to stop for a moment, but he still let his head turn, even if his feet wouldn't. Alfred stood at the counter, the coffee machine blinking its little red light. The boy let his head clunk against the wall, and Arthur made himself look away.

He reached up and pulled his coat from the hangar by the door and pulled it over his shoulders. He pressed a hand to the wall, the other to the door handle and expertly opened the door noiselessly. He slipped out and watched Alfred run for the bathroom through the gap, then let the door close.

Arthur turned away. He passed his hands over his front then pulled the lapels of his coat up against the cold that was sure to welcome him back to the streets with open arms.

He put his hands in the coats overly large pockets, then left the dorms, his heels clicking as he walked, his body shifting back into his work-posture; stomach muscles locked, hips swaying, face neutral.

This he could understand.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Alfred pulled his jacket on with an edge of violence.

“Alfred, it isn't a good idea to go out late again.” Feliks said, bundled in a blanket and blinking blearily at him.

Alfred grabbed his dorm keys, glancing around for anything else he might need. “You want Arthur back don't you?” He snapped.

Feliks was quiet for a moment. “For sure I do, Alfred.” He said, voice still soft. “Fine. Be safe.”

Alfred spun around, grasping Feliks in a tight one-arm hug, then flew out the door.

Outside his mind attempted to clear itself with the slam of cold, and he took a moment to breathe the chilled air in, his exhalations coming in foggy puffs. He tugged and smoothed down his jacket with a kind of apologetic fondness. He was wearing his beloved bomber jacket. He wasn't quite sure why, but it was large and comforting, so Alfred balled his fists by his sides and strode down the street.

His search was disorganised and hopeless at first. Scattered and fruitless. He had no idea where Arthur might have gone. He caught a taxi to the back streets where Alfred had first met Arthur. He made it wait while he cast about glancing up alleyways and running up and down pavements.

Eventually he ran back to the taxi and rode back to the main road, consenting the drivers leave with a word of thanks and a wad of bills.

He ran up and down a few more streets, then finally Alfred was hit with the realisation that he was getting nowhere.

Alfred stood in a phone booth dialling slowly, the corners of his mouth turned down and his shoulders hunched.

“Hello?” A voice crackled over the line.

“Hay, Feliks.” Alfred said, voice low and drained.

“Alfred, why're you calling from a phone booth?” Feliks asked.

“Lost my mobile, remember?” he replied.

A rush of static conveyed Feliks' sigh. “No luck with Arthur then?” his own voice catching some of Alfred's depression.

Alfred ran a hand through his hair. “Nothing. I've no idea where he would be.” He admitted, hating it.

Feliks made a noise of understanding. There was a moment, then Feliks' voice came again “Have you checked where you first met him?” He asked.

Alfred screwed his eyes shut. “Yeah.” He huffed.

“Where you think he might hang around?”

Alfred glanced though the grimy windows at the streets he had just pounded up and down. “Yeah.”

“Where you think he might...work?”

Alfred flushed and frowned at the same time. “Yeah. I ran through a few clubs.”

There was silence, then another rush of static. “I'm really sorry, Alfred.”

Alfred wondered what he was sorry for then slumped, his eyes closing. “Yeah.”

“Come home soon.” Feliks' voice came over the old wiring.

Alfred made a noise. “See you soon, Feliks.”

“See you soon.”

Alfred let the head of the clunky black phone fall back into its rest and just stood there. He stood and let time slip past. His head was strangely clear of thoughts, his heart heavy.

Eventually Alfred zoned back into the present. He was staring at the dirty wall of the phone booth. It was scratched, scrawled on and covered in stickers.

Alfred focused on these.

Then regretted it.

Besides the odd band sticker, the rest where 'call for' stickers. Pictures of half-naked men and women with numbers printed underneath their posing forms. Words had been inked in crudely with marker underneath stickers here and there. Things that made Alfred screw his nose up with discomfort.

Alfred stared at them, focusing all his anger on the stickers.

A flash of green caught his eye and Alfred found himself meeting the determined and intense gaze of Arthur Kirkland.

The poster was small and tearing at the edges, but in it Arthur glared at Alfred from under messy locks of dirty blond hair. The dirt on the page tried to dim his eyes, but the green just burned through it. A neat black cap sat, tipped slightly, on top of his head, and he clutched a riding crop in gloved hands. His stance was aggressive, yet turned slightly to the side, as if he had some nagging instinct to run away. There was something disturbing in the ease the black and leather fit Arthur's body, and suddenly Alfred couldn't look at it any more.

Yelling like a madman Alfred tore the poster from the dirty booth wall. Almost wild with horrified rage Alfred made to rip the poster apart, but he didn't. He paused, blinked, then looked back to the wall.

There where some words caught on the wall. Without moving his gaze from those words Alfred straightened out the poster again, then pressed it back against the wall.

Complete again, Alfred looked beneath Arthur's boots where there was an address printed in red.

An address.

Alfred was out of the booth and sprinting down the London streets before the door had even clicked shut.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Even out on the street Alfred could hear the music.

It pounded through the walls and door. It pulsated through the air, warding Alfred off.

He stuffed the poster into his jacket pocket then walked forward, expression dark with a dogmatic sense of purpose.

The man who stood, like Cerberus at the mouth of hell, even Alfred had to look up to see his face. The customary black suit strained over his chest and arms and he regarded Alfred through pitch black shades.

Alfred felt his heart pounding in his chest, but he glared right back at the bouncer.

Tense moments passed and finally the bouncer stepped away from the door, glancing up and down the streets with practised movements, then stepped back and opened the door.

Alfred pressed passed him and made his way down the dank, dark stairwell.

He reached the bottom just as he heard the door close with a creak and slam a floor above him. Alfred was engulfed in darkness, the only sound his breathing, and that rhythmic pounding.

He reached forward, grasped the handle to the weighty metal door, then pushed it open.

Alfred's ears nearly bust right then.

The sound was incredible. Louder and more aggressive than any party or club he had ever been to, and infectious as a virus. It pounded through him with no apparent lyrics or structure besides wild, hard, ecstasy.

The room was huge, spanning underneath a handful of buildings that resided above, unaware that this level was in existence. The air was of smoke and flaring lights, pink, to blue, to green, to blood-red.

People milled and chatted, raucously dressed women and men handing out drinks here and there. They crowded and clustered around mini stages and pedestals or grouped together, laughing and talking.

The stages ranged from different sizes and shapes, some had poles, some where nothing but a floor, or had a prop of some sort or other thrown onto it, like a chair.

All had people on. All where dancing.

Alfred could only assume it was dancing because it was in time with the pounding, but it was more like the intense writhing of people who let the pulse rip through them with a feral passion.

Alfred's eyes tried to take everything in, fighting his instincts simply turn and run, he had to remember to breath and remember why he was here.

He forced his hands out of his pockets and moved about the room as if he belonged there.

He made his way further and deeper into the building, eyes shifting almost constantly, passing stages, bars, and crowded corners. He flushed and looked away from a man pressing wads of notes down a woman's panties.

Suddenly a bang sounded throughout the whole building echoing over the pounding music and causing Alfred to jolt and turn.

The source of the noise was an open door and a man stood, hip thrown to the side, steel-tipped boots glinting in the shifting lights. Alfred's eyes widened as Arthur tossed his head back, hand on his little black cap.

Arthur let the door swing shut with a hard kick from his boot, another bang catching the attention of more of the people milling around, causing them to look over, grin at each other, and move closer.

Hips swinging Arthur stalked across the bridge to the little round stage, heels clicking, then wrapped gloved fingers around the metal of the pole.

After a few moments of letting the pulse rock through his body Arthur moved.

He threw a leg out in a perfect arc and stamped it down on the stage, metal tips cracking out like a gunshot. He gripped the pole with both hands and bent down, legs completely straight and leather shorts riding up his ass, drawing calls and yells from the crowd already gathered at the edge of Arthur's stage and a heavy flush from Alfred, his jaw dropping.

Abruptly Arthur snapped back up, throwing his arms above his head and showing off his gorgeous curves and the cut of his hip. He stretched up, then dropped backwards, hands landing flat on the stage and kicking his legs up in a perfect handstand. He wrapped his legs around the pole, locking his ankles together. Alfred watched as the muscles tensed in Arthur's stomach, he grabbed his cap where it had fallen off his head, then suddenly he had pulled himself up, grabbing the pole and letting his legs swing out to the sides in a V in the air. They snapped together again and Arthur used the momentum to twist around the pole, holding himself above the ground with one hand as he flicked the wrist of his other, sending the cap spinning out into the crowed which roared in approval.

With his legs kept in a smooth curve which followed his spine and arm, Arthur let himself spiral back to the ground.

Going at a slower pace he tangled his fingers in his hair, his eyes closed and his expression lost in the moment. He bent forwards again, back facing the pole, hair nearly brushing the floor and legs straight, then twisted back up, throwing his arms up above him again. They wrapped around the pole and he slowly eased himself onto the floor. He let the pounding pulse through his body for a moment, his chest rocking, head lolling, and legs opening, and closing.

The crowed roared and Alfred couldn't even remember to blink as Arthur lowered himself fully, releasing the metal and spreading his legs in a V again. He fell forwards suddenly, flat against the stage. Alfred's mouth went dry as Arthur, in an incredible show of dexterity, drew his legs back, to full splits, then back and behind him, thighs either side of the pole.

Arthur pushed up with his hands and tossed his head back. Alfred wanted to capture the expression of ecstasy on his face and the way the light changed to white behind his head just at that moment and keep it forever.

Arthur fell forwards again, his movements pulsing like a wave, then, with his face still pressed to the wood, Arthur drew his legs up into a kneeling position, back arching. He looked up again and Alfred couldn't read his expression. Using hands, toes, and knees Arthur crawled to the edge of the stage, and the crowed erupted. Alfred's stomach clenched painfully as he watched Arthur regard the crowd. One man reached forward, notes in his fingers, trailing up his bare thigh. Arthur looked at him, then leaned forward, planting a steel-tipped foot square into the man's face and pushing him back.

Arthur stood, back straight, and stalked back to the pole, bored with the audience now it seemed.

Alfred watched as he gripped the pole and simply made love to the bar of metal. He watched as Arthur kicked his leg above his own head like a professional ballerina. He admired the muscles shift under Arthur's pale skin, every muscle, ligament and joint put to work. He gasped as he watched the expressions shift across Arthur's face; some pained, some lost, some blissful, all with an edge showing the strain of using his body like he was.

There was another moment, when Arthur, gripping the pole with both hands, and threw his head back again, his eyes closed and his expression one of someone who was completely and totally lost to the moment, his hair flying back and beads of sweat flying from him in an arc.

Arthur held that position, then the light illuminating him shut off.

The crowed dissipated and Alfred was left standing.

He glanced around, then followed a group of men who were heading towards a shadowed section of the building. They came to a wall lined with doors, each with a door and a few men with close characteristics to the bouncer by the door up on the street outside, lingering around. Some where simply standing by the doors, while others chatted to people. Alfred made his way to the front.

“Hay, Sonny” One man placed a hand on his chest. Alfred glanced up and the man smiled good-naturedly at him.

Alfred ignored his heartbeat. “Yes?” he said.

“Who you want to see?” He asked.

Alfred tried to make it seem as if he knew what he was doing. “Arthur Kirkland.” He said.

The man pulled a face at him “Kirkland?” He said, sceptical. “That's gonna cost you a pretty penny, lad, you sure you can afford that?”

Alfred blinked. What? Did he have to pay to see Arthur? Or use him?

Before Alfred could contemplate the horror of that prospect the door behind the man swung open and Arthur stood there, a towel around his neck.

His gaze landed on Alfred.

Alfred tried to shove the images away as they clustered forwards. Attempting to replay Arthur bending back, kneeling down, his sweat-slicked back.

“I thought I heard your voice. Let him in, James.” Arthur used a voice Alfred had never heard before. It was aggressive and cutting, used to getting what he wanted here.

The man shrugged, stepping aside. “Sure thing, Arthur.”

Alfred forced himself to walk forwards, one foot at a time. Oh, and breathe. It would be good if he could breathe. He entered Arthur's room and the smaller man closed the door behind him, muting the music to a dull pulsing again.

He pulled the towel from his neck and tossed it onto a counter. They stood in a small box room, housing a counter with drawers and a bed. He looked back to Alfred and still he radiated authority and intelligence even though he was flushed from exhaustion and the ends of his hair dripped with sweat.

“How did you find me?”

Alfred tried to control his breathing, avoiding the bed behind him. This was ridiculous, he wasn't scared of Arthur. He knew Arthur.

 _Not here, you don't_ a voice whispered inside him.

He ignored it.

“This.” He answered, pulling the poster from his pocket and handing it to Arthur.

Arthur took it and looked at himself. And there it was, for a moment, that expression of self-loathing flitted across his face. Then it was gone and Arthur was tossing the tattered paper into the bin.

Arthur huffed and folded his arms across his chest. The fight seemed to die out in him and he blinked slowly.

“I saw you up on the stage.” Alfred said softly, leaning over slightly to catch Arthur's gaze.

Arthur's eyes darted to him, then away again, lips pressing together and arms tightening.

“I didn't think they would allow kids like you in here.” He responded, matching his tone.

“Well I'm not a kid so why wouldn't they let me in?” Alfred said. “I came looking for you.”

Again Arthur's eyes flickered to Alfred, then were gone again, his brow furrowing.

“I wanted to try and convince you to come back home again.” Alfred said.

Arthur shifted on his feet and his mask cracked slightly, so slightly that the change in his expression was hardly there.

“And what makes you so sure I need convincing?” Arthur's voice was close to breaking and Alfred moved forwards.

“Because I think you'd be wasting something huge if you stayed here.” He replied.

Alfred placed his hands on Arthur's bare arms, pulling him gently to his chest. He wrapped his arms around Arthur's back and held him.

Suddenly Arthur yanked himself back, hitting hard at Alfred's arms. Alfred's confused expression did nothing to diffuse the glint of fury in Arthur's eye, or the curl to his lip.

“Arthur, what -?”

“That's not the only reason is it.” Arthur said, rage bubbling under the surface at dangerous levels.

“What are you -?”

“It's what you want, it's easy.”

“What do you -?”

“That's why you did it.”

“I don't know what you're talking about!”

Arthur fisted Alfred's collar in his hands and shoved him backwards with shocking strength, pushing him until the backs of his thighs hit the bed. Alfred's hands shot out to steady him, one against the wall, the other sinking into the scratchy sheets on the bed. Arthur's face was inches from his, green eyes sparking.

“That's why you did it!” Arthur shook him.

“Arthur, what-?”

“IN THE BATHROOM!”

Alfred stopped, his expression falling. “Arthur, I did that because -.”

“I understand.” Arthur cut him off and Alfred blinked in confusion.

“You do?” he asked, hopeful.

“Of course I do.” Arthur's hands dropped from Alfred's coat and gripped his belt.

“Arthur!” Alfred jolted in surprise “What- ?”

Arthur's hands fumbled with the buckle, unfastening it and moving to the jeans. “This is what you want.”

Alfred couldn't tear his eyes away from Arthur's hands, a strange sort of panic growing inside him, as they undid the button and pulled down the zip. “What. Arthur. I...Ah..Don..Yeah but I..Arthur. DON'T.”

Alfred grabbed Arthur by the arms and tried to push him away. Arthur's eyebrows lowered and he pushed back, shoving Alfred's coat further open. “WHAT?” he yelled glaring up into Alfred's face. “YOU'RE A HORMONAL TEENAGER, YOU WANT THIS DON'T YOU?!” And with that Arthur shoved his hand down Alfred's boxers.

Alfred's grip tightened on Arthur's arms and a cry forced its way from his mouth. The jolts of liquid pleasure spasmed their way through his body. Arthur wound one arm around Alfred's back and leaned in, giving a hard pull with his other hand.

Alfred bit down on that cry and squeezed his eyes shut.

Arthur tugged Alfred's cock free and tightened his grip.

Alfred cried out again and grabbed Arthur's hands, wrenching them away. He fell back onto the bed, twisting so that Arthur was underneath him. He buried his face in the smaller man's neck for a few moments, then drew away shakily. “Stop.” He whispered.

Arthur frowned up at him. “Why?” he asked.

“Because I don't what to do that here. And I don't want you to think that the only reason I wanted to kiss you was to use you.” Alfred pulled back further, looking Arthur fully in the face, his eyes shining slightly. “Don't you know me by now?”

They stared at each other for a few moments, the music beyond the door pulsing. Arthur's mask shattered. All the sadness, and loneliness, and vulnerability showing through.

There was a knock on the door and both men turned to look, drawing a sharp breath.

They scrambled up, Arthur tugging at his clothes, Alfred tucking his dick back into his pants and doing them back up.

Arthur grabbed the door handle, glanced back at Alfred, then pulled the door open.

The man who looked down at Arthur gave Alfred the impression that if a dog and a toad had a mutant child, this is what it would look like. His heavy brow seeming to weigh down his dim, watery eyes and his lip curled at the man before him.

“What do you think you're doing, Kirkland” He rumbled. “Breaking protocol.”

“Well, that no longer matters” Arthur said calmly “I don't work here any more.” Then he walked past the man, hips swaying. Alfred scrambled after him and tried to avoid eye contact.


	9. Chapter 9

Alfred stared at Arthur, blue eyes penetrating green as if by sheer force of will he could break through the barriers and all would be made clear as a crystal pond.

“English.”

“Yes, Alfred.”

“English.”

“ _Yes, Alfred.”_

There was a pause and Alfred's eyes glanced to the side as if thinking the two words through on multiple and deeper levels.

“But. _English?_ ”

“Alfred!” Arthur faced Alfred side-on, hand placed forcefully onto the counter-top. _“Yes._ I chose English! _”_

Alfred was quiet for a moment again, looking at Arthur as if the simple answer confused him. “But...You already _speak_ English.”

Arthur bent over, placing his elbow on the counter and pushing his palm to his forehead. “Well I'm certainly not speaking to you in _Dutch!_ ”

Alfred tore his gaze away from Arthur's figure. “But...You can do English any time...”

Arthur regarded Alfred and let his hand flop back down to dangle off the edge of the counter. “Well I chose the course I knew I would enjoy.”

His words hung in the air and Arthur tried to convey the deep adoration he had of poetry, words and print over to the younger man; the feel of smooth paper and the smell one could only indulge oneself in a dusty library. Alfred looked to the side again, eyes flickering, following the path his thoughts made.

“But... _English_?”

Arthur groaned. “God. YES, ALFRED!”

“Are we, like, interrupting something here?” Feliks was grinning as he and Toris entered the room.

Arthur's face flushed and he slammed his hand down on the counter top. Swift to kill any misguided innuendo with one strike. _“No..._ No... _”_

Alfred crossed his arms over his chest, creasing the American football logo on the front, and mumbled something, pout unmistakable on his face, under his breath.

Arthur walked around the counter and slapped him on the arm quipping; “I could trip over that bottom lip.” As he passed.

Alfred scowled further. “But you like psychology too.” He whined. “You could have been in a class with me and Feliks!”

Arthur paused, then sighed again. “Alfred.” He said. “What do you feel when you... _do_ psychology?”

Alfred frowned. “You mean like papers?”

Arthur thought. “Yes, and when you read books on it, and write your own views, and when you learn something new?”

Alfred's eyes lit up. “Well I feel good. Kinda tingly. Like I've done something great in something I love.”

Arthur smiled, happy he had established the connection. “And that's what I feel with English.” He gushed.

Alfred clicked his fingers and pointed at Arthur, wiled eyed and grinning. “And when you eat a fresh stack of pancakes! That's the same feeling too!”

Arthur felt the connection wither and die.

He couldn't help but bare an unwilling, but genuine half-smile. He looked at Alfred for a moment, then turned and gave a small wave over his shoulder to the group, saying “I'm going for a shower now."

Alfred gave a half-smile of his own. “You're always having showers.” he chuckled.

Arthur looked over his shoulder and twitched his lip, unable to met Alfred's eyes. “Yeah.” He attempted to chuckle back.

 

* * *

 

As Arthur shut the bathroom door and stripped off his shirt, the memory of that little dingy bathroom at his old home resurfaced. His fingers stilled on his jean's button. Honestly, he couldn't afford a shower. It had been baths any time he could grab them when he was on his own. And on the rare off-chance that he had no where to be, he had washed, then wrapped his arms around his knees and let the water grow stagnant as he stared passed the greying tiles and let his mind wonder.

Arthur let his boxers drop to the floor and turned the shower on. Stepping under it Arthur let that euphoric thrill wash over him. He grinned to himself as he faced the spray with scrunched-shut eyes. Arthur _adored_ that feeling. He adored being enveloped in gorgeous heat and billowing steam clouds. He loved how the moment the water hit him he could feel it run in rivers and streams from his head to his toes and down the drain, carrying all the dust and dirt of the day with it. It almost felt like being clean. Not in the commonplace meaning of the word, but in Arthur's meaning.

Perhaps, Arthur thought as he scrubbed a hand through his choppy hair, if he had enough showers, one day he really would be clean.

Arthur decided to overlook the implications this might have on his psychological well-being.

Arthur ran his hands over his hair and body, he stopped with his right hand on his face. Eyes still closed he tilted his head slightly, into his hand.

It had been days but he could barely get the thought out of his mind. His hand had been wrapped around Alfred's penis.

Sure, he had touched a few men in his time. But still...Alfred...

Arthur shivered.

He held his hand up in front of his face, still smooth planes of pale skin, bone, and ligaments. Yet Alfred...

Arthur squeezed his eyes shut again and threw out his hands and flailed, bouncing from foot to foot and letting his toes curl.

Arthur's heart jumped into his mouth when there was a knock at the door.

“Arthur” Toris' voice came floating though the steam and jets of water. “Are you all right?”

Even though no one could see him, Arthur straightened out and let his hand fret at his side. “I'm fine!” He answered. “I'll be out in a minuet!”

“Ok.” Toris called, and Arthur let out a shaky breath as he reached for the soap to finish up.

 

* * *

 

 

When Arthur had towled off and pulled on a clean set of borrowed clothes he found Alfred and Toris chatting by the coffee machine, and Feliks leaning on the counter, engrossed in a glossy copy of Vogue.

Feliks glanced up at him, pink shadow dusted over his eyes, and beaconed him over with a manicured hand. Arthur walked around the kitchen unit and peered over Feliks' shoulder as he jabbed a pink varnished nail at the page.

“You seen these?” He asked “They seem you're style.”

Arthur regarded the male model on the page, frozen and appearing weightless as he let his hands dance over his body. He looked at the cream, fitted slacks Feliks was pointing too. They didn't look too bad...

On the model.

Arthur looked away and let his lip tug into a lopsided smile. “I don't think anything like that would look good on me.” He admitted softly.

Feliks reversed his position so that his elbows rested on the counter-top, giving him room to regard Arthur critically. “And, like, why ever not?”

Arthur drew his shoulders into himself, his eyes rolling, embarrassed, to the ceiling. “Well, I think I'm too old for that sort of thing.”

“Arthur.” Feliks deadpanned. “You're, what? Twenty-three?”

“You're right. I sometimes forget.” Arthur whipped back.

Feliks ignored him. “Right. Not old...Like..Anti-old.”

Arthur's cheeks where steadily beginning to burn. He gestured to the model on the page. “Yes, but, what is he? T _welve?”_

Feliks snapped the magazine up, displaying the model in question clearly. Arthur couldn't tear his eyes away. The model seemed to be gazing deep within his soul. Undressing him with his eyes.

“This man is Ralph Ward. He is gorgeous, talented, and most definitely _not_ twelve!”

“Certainly.” Arthur said, breaking contact with the models lusty gaze.

He had been wondering what Alfred would look like with clothes that tight on.

Arthur blinked at Feliks. “Wait, how do you now so much about him?”

Feliks tossed some golden hair over his shoulder. “A name isn't, like, that big a deal.”

Arthur gave him an ironic expression. “It's more than I know.”

Suddenly Alfred came from no where and threw his arm around Feliks' shoulders. “Feli wants to go into the world of fashion, don't you, Feli!”

“Really?” Arthur inquired.

“Yep” Feliks smiled, extracting himself from under Alfred's heavy arm. “I wanna do clothes design and maybe a bit of modelling.”

Arthur frowned. “I thought you where smitten with psychology...”

Feliks grinned. “I, like, totally am, but y'know. Keeping doors open and stuff.” Abruptly he sized Arthur up, letting his green eyes run over him. “Speaking of which you could totally be a model."

Alfred chocked on the ToffeCrisp bar he had been stuffing in his mouth.

Arthur didn't blame him. He made an incredulous noise, looking away again and self-consciously ran his fingers over his...thick eyebrows. “Somehow I don't think I'm what they're looking for.”

Feliks snorted, giving Arthur a look as if it had been _him_ saying something fantastical. “Arthur.” He gave a strange little laugh. “Have you, like, _seen_ you?”

“What?” Arthur flushed.

“You're... _adorable._ ”

Arthur's eyebrows lowered. “That was not the word I was expecting.” He said. “And anyway; have you _seen these?_ ” He pointed bluntly at the caterpillars snuggled on his forehead.

Alfred seemed to remember himself, far-off gaze and flushed cheeks evaporating as he blinked at Arthur's forehead.

“Hay” he said, reaching out a finger to poke. “I never noticed those before.” He giggled. “They're so soft.”

Arthur slapped his hand away. “That's enough of that.”

“Arthur.” Toris' soft voice called from where he had been leaning against the other side of the counter, observing the happenings. “They're not that bad.”

Lies, Arthur thought, rubbing them again, as if they would go away. “Francis told me they where repulsive.” He said, not really thinking.

A horrendously awkward millisecond came into existence and would have supernova-ed into a nightmare of embarrassing if Alfred; being sort of embarrassing himself, with his flushed cheeks and his mental images of a posing, pouting Arthur, sort of allowed the levels of awkward to cancel each other out. Physics or something.

He jumped over to Arthur, wrapped an arm around his waist and used his free hand to stroke Arthur's generous eyebrows. “They're so fluffy!” He grinned.

“Even some models have, like, huge eyebrows” Feliks said “Or, like, nose or something.”

Arthur tried to fight off Alfred's hands like an offended cat. He snorted “Yes, thank you, that's a huge consolation.”

There was a knock on the dormitory door. The group froze, turning towards the door, Feliks and Toris watching Arthur practically bent backwards over Alfred's arm, pushing the younger man's hands away.

Mr Felicita smiled as Toris answered the door.

“Hello, Toris.” He greeted.

“Good morning, Mr Felicita.” Toris replied.

“I would like to have a word with you all, if that's all right.” the teacher said as Toris let him into the dorm.

Toris' smile faltered for a moment. “Not bad news I hope.”

“No, no, not at all.” Mr Felicita assured, waving his hand and beaconing the others forward. “I need to talk about accommodation.”

Alfred frowned. “'scuse me, Sir?”

Mr Felicita drew breath to explain. “Well. These dorms are only meant to house two.”

Feliks' pink-rimmed eyes where slowly widening “So...”

Mr Felicita waved his hand again “Wipe that look off your face, Feliks, I'm not throwing you out. But...” He looked around the group. “Two of you are going to have to take a separate dorm. I'm afraid the rules and regulations are rather clear and four of you in one dorm is just too many.”

Feliks's face morphed into one of abject horror, but Mr Felicita cut him off before he could start wailing.

“Now don't you give me that, Feliks Łukasiewicz, no amateur dramatics, thank you. There is a free dorm literally down the hall, left by two students who graduated last year to go into politics. You're not even going to be five doors away.”

Feliks abruptly halted in his sniffling and hiccuping and placed a hand on his chest. “Oh, well that's, like, peachy then!” He made a 'phew' gesture.

The other three gave him a look.

“So” Mr Felicita clapped his hands together “I'll leave you boys to decide between yourselves which room's you're going to be in, and then Mr Schwertschmied will send someone up to help you shift you're things.”

Alfred blinked. “Actually” He said, leaning slightly as if to see his teachers other half hiding behind the man. “Where is Mr Schmied?” You two are never apart, he added in his head.

Mr Felicita's eyes flickered and he made a small movement as if he too was about to turn to check behind him. “Err..” He said awkwardly. “He's in the staffroom. Phoning different police stations...”

Alfred felt a rock sink in his stomach. “Oh...well..Ok.”

Mr Felicita's honey-brown eyes softened. He gripped Alfred's broad shoulder briefly. “Don't worry, Alfred.” He said, tone firm and gentle.

He smiled back at the boys as he left. “See you later.” Then he was jogging back to the staffroom; Things to organise, students to keep safe.

They watched the empty space for a moment, then turned to face each other.

“So...” Toris broke the silence. “I think I should go.”

“No.” Feliks and Alfred both said, firmly at the same time.

“I think I should.” Toris insisted “I'm the newest here.”

“So am I” Arthur added.

“Yes, but I'm not a student.” He said.

“I should move.” They turned to Alfred, hand on his chest. “It's kinda my fault...”

“And that's why you should stay.” They all turned again, struck silent by Feliks' tone. It was strong, and not to be contradicted. “Alfred, while you're here you are in an environment you feel safe and familiar with. If we take you out of it and put you in an unfamiliar place, even if it is only down the hall, who knows how your PDSD would take it. You might have full-on black out flashback, screaming fits, nightmares.”

They where silent for a moment. Alfred's hand slipping from his chest.

“So.” Toris said. “Alfred stays.”

“I feel useless now.” Alfred murmured, a slight crease between his eyebrows.

Feliks sighed a bit and patted him on the arm. “Don't. Because you're not. Now honestly..” He said, turning away and gently slipping his hand into Toris' “I'd like to stay with Toris.”

“Ok.” Toris said, gazing deeply into Feliks' eyes. “Then I guess we go.”

“I guess we do.”

Feliks rubbed his thumb over the back of Toris' hand.

He blinked.

“You know what this means?” He said suddenly.

“What?” Alfred asked.

Feliks inhaled, his eyes sparking. _“Shopping.”_


	10. Chapter 10

Arthur shrugged on the oversized jacket again.

“I promise, Ok?” He sighed.

Alfred stood with his arms crossed over his chest. “Yeah, but what if you just...don't.”

“But, I will.” Arthur insisted. He gestured to the clothes he was wearing, a strange combination of Alfred's and Feliks' this time. “Do I honestly look like someone trying to run away?”

“I dunno.” Alfred scowled “Do you?”

Arthur let his arms fall to his sides. “Well, if you're going to be like that then you're just going to have to trust me.”

They looked at each other for a moment then Alfred stepped forward, expression still pouting, and pointed his pinky finger at Arthur's face.

Arthur leaned back slightly to avoid being poked in the eye. “Alfred, what..?”

“Pinky swear!” Alfred barked, with all the authority of a pestilent child.

Arthur rolled his eyes and sighed, locking pinkies with Alfred. “How old are you, Alfred.” He said rhetorically.

“Nineteen, why?” Alfred replied after he was satisfied Arthur would not disgrace the honour of the Pinky.

Arthur blinked at him, slowly. “Never mind.”

 

* * *

 

 

It almost felt odd; walking down these streets again. There was an ever present sensation causing shivers to roll down Arthur's back, as if ghosts where peering out at him from behind dustbins and over walls in the darkness of the alleyways, creeping closer with extending limbs, then vanishing when Arthur turned his head.

He trod through the barren wasteland, head forward, hands in pockets, walking through litter-strewn streets riddled with potholes and grime. Arthur felt the dirt in the air form a film over his body, settling on his face, in his hair and eyelashes, or it might have been his imagination. At any rate, he would be taking another hot shower as soon as he got back. He liked showers.

Arthur paid more attention to the drab, grey streets he passed as the walls grew higher and the world seemed to grow darker. It was as if even the sun struggled to make this part of the world any brighter, it's rays trickling weakly through the brickwork and grey.

At last he came to a bank of streets that struck a strange nostalgia in him. It crawled under his skin and set a deep, dark fear in his heart. The Void stirred in his chest and Arthur had to bite back the choking grip it began to tighten on his throat, blink the light-headedness away.

Arthur ducked his head, steeled himself, then stood straight. His eyes hardened, his muscles tense, and his steps lithe and cat-like. Falling back into the beaten street-know. A knowledge too deep to be habit, and to worked to be routine. A knowledge that had sunk under his skin with every beat of his heart, every flick of his eye. It was strange though. As if his body, even his mind remembered, yet his heart carried too light in his chest, too bright and new to be touched by the darkness and the grime. Arthur smothered it in shrouds, gently, letting the light shine, but not enough for it to reach his skin, or his eyes.

Letting the street-know, the _instincts,_ control him, he glanced around, barely twitching his head least anyone be watching, calculating every possible escape route, every window that may hide eyes, every rooftop that may hide bodies.

He gazed once more at the towering, ugly buildings fencing him in, leaning over, then faced front and made his way to one of the hundreds of black alleyways where a solitary figure stood in the shadows.

The man was large and round, yet he was barely noticeable in a huge black coat and a wide-brimmed black hat pulled low on his face. The most distinguishable features he had was his weathered, lined face, the huge cigar stuck in his slanted mouth, and his dead, fish-glazed eyes.

“Hay, Artie.” The man greeted, voice low and gravelly “What can I do you for?” He then erupted into rough hysterics over his own hilarity.

Arthur gave him a few moments to compose himself.

What was it with these people and sex jokes? Arthur supposed it was all in the job description. The dealers, and the sellers. They all knew one another, how much to pay, what they where buying and selling. What they could rib each other with. What would get them on the good lists, and what would keep them off the bad lists. Arthur supposed he could forgive him. The sellers always thought they could rile the prostitutes with sex jokes.

“I'll get straight to the point, Joe.” Arthur said clearly, lowly. “Are you still interested in the property?”

“'Course I'm still interested.” Joe replied “It's in a prime location, I've always been interested.” Arthur had known what Joe would use the property for; growing drugs, and he had always refused. But now...

Joe dusted imaginary dirt off his coat sleeve, then fixed Arthur with a penetrating stare. “Suddenly I'm curious, Arthur. I'm interested in why you would suddenly take up my offer.”

Arthur was silent, burying his uneasiness under years of wear and tear. There was something about the man's eyes. They were small, rummy, but black as night and unblinking. Not a single speck of light reflected out of those eyes., and they set a deep disgust in Arthur's bones. Not fear. He wouldn't let it be fear.

Keeping Arthur under his eye, completely fixed on Arthur's face, he brought a mottled hand to his cigar, took a deep drag, and exhaled through his nose. Even through the billows of smoke, his eye still stared out at Arthur.

“You got trouble boy?” He asked, almost emotionless.

“I've got trouble.” Arthur replied, still waiting for the man to blink. “I'm in the biggest trouble I've ever been in.” He almost grinned at the image of Alfred that immediately came to mind. But he didn't even let a flicker onto his face. “But it's nothing to do with the house.” Nothing to do with you.

Joe kept him under his fish eye for a moment longer, then sighed and finally blinked and looked away.

Arthur felt the tension loosen in his chest.

“Fine kid.” He pulled his hand out from the depths of his black coat and stuck it out towards Arthur.

Arthur did nothing yet “Wait” he said. “Five minutes.”

Joe's fish eye blinked at him then away again, retracting his hand. “Five minutes.” He muttered gruffly.

It only took a few steps. A few potholes, and rubbish bags, and paces of his feet before he was standing before his life.

Arthur's door had once been something special too him. Something he owned, something leading to other things he owned, and had got for himself, by himself, with hard, hard work. Sometimes so hard he lost sight in the point of it all. But this door had always been his.

That feeling had lasted for a good few seconds.

It hadn't taken long for the feeling to petter out and die under the sheer pressure of Arthur's life. It hadn't mattered, he had food to buy, a routine to stick to. Now Arthur was standing before that door, that slab of bland, decaying wood, again, for the last time.

Five minutes, Arthur.

Arthur slid his finger tips over the rim on the top of the door until they tapped gently against something cold and metal, and covered in dust.

Arthur took the key from it's recess and stuck it in the lock, twisting, and opening the door.

Arthur knew this place so well that he could see it in the dark, know where every wall was, every corner and map out every patch on the wooden floor where the boards had worn thin.

Even so Arthur raised his arm and tugged on the swinging chord above his head, allowing a weak light to flicker into existence.

Four minutes, Arthur.

Arthur tried to ignore the ghosts. The fleeting glimpses he caught in the corner of his eye. The ones that wanted to catch his attention and drag him down into the memories. There was the dent on the floor from that one man who had followed him home. The scuff mark by the door where his brother always used to drop his boots when he visited. And of course, the unmistakable tinge of dark in the paintwork of the walls where he had scrawled almost mystical symbols all over his house in his own blood. He had been stoned off his face. Opened and spinning, his body melted and dripped, and the world poured into the places they left. He was thrown into a dizzying world of colour and lights and pools of blackness. Where anything was possible and everything made sense. Where he had been so sure that he had taken a knife and ran it hard and cold across his own wrists. Giggling at the feel of his skin opening.

No matter how many times he had painted over the huge, dripping symbols they never went completely away. Just like the times he had decided to get trippy would never leave his memory.

Arthur didn't like drugs. And he really didn't want to be thinking about that right now.

Arthur shook off the ghosts and took long quick steps through the room and into his bedroom. He flung the wardrobe doors wide and dropped to the floor. He pushed a few things aside then dived on a little messenger bag buried beneath his things. He hurriedly checked inside and let out a soft exhalation of air at the sight of the small envelope. Arthur dipped his hand inside and pulled it out, flipping the worn and torn opening and glancing at the wads of notes inside.

Arthur wasn't an idiot. He knew not to stash his life-savings all in the same place, and like hell he could just waltz in to a London bank and say “hello, good sir, I would like to open up a life savings account in order to maintain a safe place for all my _sex money._ ” So, stuffing the envelope of notes back into the bag, Arthur slung the bag over his shoulder and reached under the wardrobe. He hissed a bit and worried his lip with his teeth as he had to twist into an awkward angle. At last his fingers brushed another battered envelope, this one he had cello-taped to the underside of the wardrobe base. Tearing it off he checked this one too, then threw it into the bag.

Arthur went straight to the mainroom then, the room that his front door lead straight into. He dropped to his knees by his dining table and searched the underside of the wood.

There was nothing there.

Arthur stood back up and buried his face in his hands. It was all right. That had been the fake-stash. A distraction if he got burgled and a stash the thieves could easily find. It was gone; with the money inside. But that was all right, because it ensured the safety of the rest of his things. Hopefully.

Arthur inhaled deeply through his nose, letting the air fill him, then pulled his hands over his face to drag through his hair, trying to banish the dead, sinking feeling in his stomach, blinking rapidly. He tried not to think of the things he had done for that money. The things he had to do in darkened rooms and filthy places. That money was gone, forget about it.

Arthur moved on. The next envelope under the sink. The next under a floorboard. And the final stuffed in his mattress.

Arthur stood in his ransacked house, bag feeling a little fuller by his leg. How much time did he have left?

He finally grabbed the one tee-shirt he owned and stuffed that into the bag, then he left his bedroom, for the final time.

Arthur came to the mantelpiece that had been built over a fireplace that had long since been blocked, back in the main room. He ran his finger over the top, staring at the bits and bobs that dotted the wood. Things he had collected over the years. Useless things, but they filled up places.

A floorboard creaked behind him.

Arthur had the knife he kept on the mantelpiece pressed to a soft throat before a single heartbeat passed.

Arthur watched the man's chest rise and fall in panicked gasps, practically able to feel his heart pounding in his chest from where he had bunched his fist in the man's jacket to drag him forwards, to the blade.

Arthur frowned, hang on a tic...brown leather.

“Alfred?!” Arthur gasped and leaned back to see the boy's face twisted in fear, eyes squeezed shut, frozen in pulling away from the blade-edge as far as he could before the cold metal had pressed against his neck.

Arthur took the knife away and Alfred wheezed, blue eyes opening.

“Alfred!” Arthur cried, whacking his shoulder with the butt of the blade. “I told you not to come!”

Alfred raised his eyebrows. “Really? And you believed me when I said I wouldn't?”

“ _Alfred!_ ” The noise pulling itself from a place deep within Arthur. It almost sounded like shame. Perhaps it was. A deep and buried pit of shame. “I didn't want-” What? Now Arthur realised it. He didn't want Alfred to see this. He never wanted these two points of his life to meet. And yet here he stood. Alfred in his tan leather jacket and thin dark sweater, all height and broad chest, and handsome face and Original Blue Jeans, standing there and bringing his...

Normality?

It was more like a strange aura, like a light or Alfred's sense of humour, surrounding him, enveloping Arthur, and it was like he was back, safe and warm and happy in Alfred's dormitory, _their_ dormitory, and Arthur's one floor flat was just something blurry in the corner of his eye.

But there was a more pressing matter; Alfred's safety.

“This the trouble you where talking about?”

Arthur and Alfred jumped at the gruff, low voice from the open doorway. Arthur turned to see Joe standing by the door, clouds of smoke whirling around his head, large and dark against the doorway. The overhead light flickered and Arthur couldn't look away from Joe's tiny, unblinking eyes.

Fuck. Arthur's defences where totally down, his eyes wide, his mouth slightly open, and his movements. Caught right between Alfred and his shit heap. No offence to Alfred, but this was entirely his fault.

Arthur was panicking. A new kind of panic. A panic different to all his others that where hot and heavy and deep and worms under his skin.

This was pure: Oh _fuck,_ what do I _do_?!?

He huffed the dusty air for a few heartbeats then opened his mouth. “Yeah.” He said “Exactly that kind of trouble.”

Joe observed him from under the brim of his hat, an ' _indeed'_ in the tilt of his head.

He was seconds away from getting Alfred killed.

Without breaking gazes with Joe, Arthur expertly flipped the blade in his hand and tucked it into the pocket of his borrowed jeans. Bad move, the blade will make holes but he'd just apologise to Toris later.

He tightened his grip on Alfred's leather clad shoulder, warm from the tall boy's skin, then let him go. He moved backwards towards the mantelpiece until a frame was just visible in the corner of his eye. He grabbed it, then stuffed it into his bag.

He was slowly letting the padlocks and shields fall back into place, not so quickly that the change would be apparent, but so they would be there to protect him. And now Alfred.

“Seems like a young kid.” Arthur didn't want Joe's eyes on Alfred, but there was nothing he could do about it. He heard Alfred's intake of breath as Joe's filmy, dead eyes flicked to him.

Alfred was scared.

Arthur didn't allow himself to look at Alfred. He just prayed that Alfred stayed strong as he let a few more of the walls fall into place, the final barriers, and his eyes darkened into cold disinterest. “Some are young.” He said, he had talks like this all the time in the few instances he crossed paths with the dealers and the sellers. With men like Joe.

Joe let out a laugh “If you can be so lucky!” More of the jokes. Arthur hoped it was a good sign.

Arthur let his posture tense, and hold. He moved forward with purpose, tapping his finger to Alfred's as he passed. Their pinkies.

“Got everything?” Joe said gruffly, spitting some smoke.

“Everything.” Arthur replied, then held up the key, letting it glint in the light. Joe reached for it, but Arthur twitched it back.

Joe let his lip curl into a toothy grin and he retracted his hand, instead reaching inside the depths of his coat, and pulling out a fat envelope.

Arthur slowly reached for it, keeping his movements slow in acknowledgement to the obvious clink of weaponry Joe had hidden in the shadows of his coat, warning Arthur not to try anything.

He opened the envelope, checking inside, then passed the key to Joe.

“No spares?” Joe said as Arthur tucked the final envelope into his bag.

“No spares.” He reassured.

“If there are...” Joe said coldly, the dark somehow making his eyes clearer, he tapped his nose with a finger “I'll know.”

“Nice doing business with you, Joe.”

Joe snorted, puffs of smoke pouring from his nose, as he dragged on his cigar. “'Pleasures all mine, Arthur.” Then he let out some more barks of laughter.

Arthur brushed passed him, letting himself emit practised indifference and prayed that Alfred could just slip through the door after him.

His heart nearly stopped when Joe raised a hand, stopping Alfred. Arthur saw the wild glint in Alfred's wide, blue eyes as he looked at the man.

Joe looked up at Alfred, letting a smile twist onto his face. “Hope you know what you just paid for, kid. That one's only going to give you what you invested in it.”

Joe let him push past and Arthur and Alfred left him there, leaving the dark and Joe's laughter behind.

They where halfway down the street when Alfred's bravado broke.

He let a release of shaky breath he had been holding for what felt like hours. _“So...”_ He said.

“Don't think about it too much, keep walking.” Arthur said.

“Well, what _was_ that? You weren’t selling him...” He let the end trail off, a little scared of the answer.

“No. I sold him my house.” Arthur kept his answers quick and clear.

“Why did you do that?” Alfred gaped, slightly saddened, but more confused.

“So I have money. And I couldn't keep that house now that I've moved.”

Arthur heard the steps behind him halt, then patter quickly to catch up with him.

“So you're, like, cutting ties?” He asked, strangely hopeful.

“Exactly.”

Alfred paused for a second, the last bursts of adrenalin finally draining from his system completely, leaving him tired and shivery. “And you'll be safer?”

Arthur turned his face slightly, letting Alfred see his cheek and the line of his jaw and the sweep of his eyelashes before he took it away again.

“We'll be safer.” The smaller man said. He almost thought he had said it too quietly for anyone but him to hear.

Arthur jerked in shock at the feeling of Alfred's large, warm hand sliding gently into his. This time he didn't whip out his blade.

Instead he glanced up at Alfred's face, seeing this kind of joyful glow in his tan skin and a happy glint in his eye, and Arthur decided he would try to forget about what Alfred thought about his house, the glimpse he had seen of Arthur's old life in those last few moments, and held his hand as they walked home.


	11. Chapter 11

Arthur could feel the press of Alfred's grin against his cheek.

Arthur moaned, open-mouthed, eyes closed, allowing himself to be completely enveloped, held against the tall man, every atom in his body zinging.

Arthur breaths and the air is electric, it's an addiction, one that is not _nearly_ close to being sated. All Arthur can think is _more, more, more._

_Please, just love me more._

Something tugged at Arthur, in the back of his mind, almost causing his eyes to open. They do. But only for a lazy, swift second, and then it's gone, because there's Alfred.

Alfred, holding him so close.

It almost feels like he would prefer never to be anywhere else.

No. Not quite.

Never be anywhere else, if Alfred couldn't be there with him.

The grin is back. Arthur can feel it as Alfred smiles against his cheek, all teeth and damp breath and the blissful smell of Alfred. Arthur wants to ask him why he's smiling, what makes him want to just hold Arthur, _so_ close to his own body, and _smile._

Arthur is aware that he's clinging to Alfred, one hand gripping his muscled back, the other buried under his golden-thatch hair. He makes another contented mewling noise, that would mortify him had it been murmured into anyone else’s ear except Alfred's.

Arthur's stomach lurches as Alfred's lips purse and gently, lovingly brush Arthur's cheek.

 

* * *

 

 

And he's awake.

Arthur feels his heart skip a few beats in an honestly quite painful way that cannot be healthy.

His shock-contracted eyes dart about for a moment, taking in the washing of sunshine, the clutter of a students bedroom, and the fact that he is indeed cocooned within Alfred's grasp.

And Alfred is drooling against his cheek.

 

* * *

 

“C'mon!!” Feliks ordered, clapping his hands and letting the plastic bangles hooped around his wrist clatter against one other. “Hurry up! Top Shop isn't going to empty itself!!!”

“It's too early to go shopping.” Alfred whined, yawning, with one hand down the front of his sweatpants, the other in his hair.

Feliks ignored Alfred's boy-isms and instead turned to face him, hands on his slim hips. “Alfred Jones you get back in your room, put your wrist brace back on and you get dressed right now or so help me I shall burn every pair of sweatpants you own. I'm like, willing to make that sacrifice.”

Alfred groaned again, about-faced, and slouched back to his room muttering about how he didn't like the wrist brace because it itched.

Feliks sighed and turned to Toris, letting a gloss-coated lip tremble.

“Oh, Liet.” He sniffled “Why can't everyone be as fabulous as me?”

Toris looked over his partner, taking in the skin-tight leggings that looked like leather pants, the kitten-heeled ankle boots, the oversized jumper with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, pulled in at the waist by a thick belt, and the little hair clips keeping his shoulder-length hair in place.

“Because you are on a whole other level, dear.” He stated.

Feliks smiled and pressed his lips to Toris' quickly, then ran his manicured thumb over his lovers lip to brush away the gloss. “I know.”

  

* * *

 

 

Arthur's defence mechanism had kicked in.

He could see how it annoyed people, confused them, but honestly; right now he was deeply, _deeply_ embarrassed.

And the way he dealt with that.

Assume the Queen role.

Arthur's inner voice sighed at himself. He would make it up to them later. Perhaps through cleaning.

But right now he had an Alfred to guard against.

“Dude, I _said_ I was sorry!” Previously mentioned Alfred whined.

“Yes.” Queen Arthur responded primly, surrounding himself in a safe bubble of authority. Authority was good. Authority he could deal with. “And I have accepted your apologies. You have just failed to supply me with the reassurance that it will not happen again, and I can't see that coming about any time soon with the fact that you insist I sleep in the same bed as you, _and_ I wake up every morning to a living cocoon, which is frankly, suffocating and very warm.”

Alfred pouted. “I can't help that I'm a cuddle monster.”

“Indeed.” Queen Arthur sniffed, but on the inside he was beginning to panic, his mind screaming 'it's not working, go for the low blow!' “And may I point out that because of that almost every morning I have to wake up to your...Natural predicaments. You are a teenage boy and hormones make things..ah.. _hard_ for you, but you must understand it gets tiresome after a while.”

Alfred's entire face erupted into a glowing shade of pink.

Arthur felt a pang of guilt and imagined exactly where he would place Alfred's freshly washed and ironed clothes once they got back to the university. Thankfully, his saving grace came in the form of Feliks, throwing up an arm and flagging down a glossy black taxi to whisk them away to the shopping districts of London.

 

* * *

 

 

Arthur had never felt the need to compulsively, and thoughtlessly spend money before.

But here, in the bustling, beehive streets, he practically felt like an alien in the same city he had lived in his entire life. Never before had he spared so much as a glance up the wide roads of Oxford street and the circus' above the subways, with their towering images of beautiful people, somehow looking normal against the stone buildings. His place was below this city, where the only light came from florescent bulbs and club lights where he would pick up his next meal-ticket.

However it was like there was a drug in the air that told him to _spend._

Thankfully he was made of stronger stuff.

Which couldn't be said for his peers.

“I'm thinking _diamond patterned jumpers,_ I'm thinking _slacks with statement shoes._ ”

“Darling, I'm sure Arthur can find something he likes by himself.”

Feliks gave a strange noise that had Arthur questioning what little he knew about human biology when he appeared to gasp without taking any air in. “How can you _say_ that honey, _no one_ has my eye, and I just _know_ Arthur can pull off geek-chic like No Otha” This was accompanied by a complicated hand gesture. “Like, even _I_ Would have difficulty looking fabulous in that style unless there was _a lot_ of plastic, and _a lot_ of warm colours, but Arthur.” Feliks sighed normally, albeit wistfully as he extended his arms out to Arthur in the busy street, alarmingly Snow White-esque, “Has the _bone structure._ ”

Alfred somehow knew that there was more use of italics in that sentence then there ever should have been in a healthy conversation.

Arthur's bone structure was taking on the expression; Scared.

Alfred decided to save him.

“Look, dude.” He drawled, slinging an arm around Arthur's neck and pulling him close. “Arthur and I can just toddle along to Superdry, no problem, no worries.”

Feliks' face contorted with fury as he snatched Arthur back to Fabulous with lightning-quick agility, so that Alfred's arm remained raised where an Arthur had been just milliseconds previously.

“ _NO, Alfred Jones.”_ Feliks hissed “I am _not_ having you convert another soul to the Conformism Machine. He would look _ridiculous_ in those godforsaken sweatpants, not to mention _ew. Flannel. Drowning in flannel. What where you thinking_.”

Ok, so much for that idea.

And as per usual they filed behind Feliks and let him be fabulous and soon they where all holding a makeshift mountain in varying sizes (largest to smallest being Arthur to Alfred) of Feliks-approved clothing.

Alfred relinquished control over that aspect, but he could still win. “Well, I get to choose where we eat!”

“We are not eating at McDonald’s.” The three other men chorused.

Or maybe not.

Alfred was, however, allowed the luxury of entering Game.

Arthur watched Alfred out of the corner of his eye from where he was stood beside the previously owned Wii games.

Honestly, the American boy looked like he was about to _cry._

Arthur gave up all pretence of stealth and stood on his tiptoes, peering over the stand, wanting to know just what could have the boy so emotional.

From what he could see the cover of the game had blood.

Lots and lots of blood.

With a jolt Arthur saw Alfred turn around, catching his eye. He made a sadface at him, holding the game to emphasize his point.

Arthur dropped back off his toes, and walked over to Alfred.

“There are dragons, Arthur!” He wailed “ _Dragons!_ ”

Alfred's tragic display was put on hold as Feliks called for him to drag his ass out of the shop, and with a pout, he slouched away.

Arthur stood for a moment, hesitant. He grabbed the game back off the shelf and flipped it over, enjoying the feel of the glossy cover. His eyes bugged at the price, he put it back as if it burned him.

But Alfred seemed to really want it...

And Arthur had plenty of money, even after forking out for each ensemble Feliks put together for him, plus the appropriate accessories, his arms _hurt_ with the amount of bags hanging off them.

Arthur managed to maneuver the clothes-rack that had been his arms, and just about managed to stick his fingers in his back pocket, pulling out the brand-new wallet and flipping it open. It was stuffed awkwardly with cash, but that was until he could journey, accompanied by Mr Felicita to the bank, which he was not looking forward to.

But still, he had plenty of money. At least until the first university fee. But he would try to get a job before then. And that was what student loans where for, with laws in place to make sure you had a steady income before paying them back, and even then it was slowly, and over a great deal of time. The more he learned about the system, the more he felt he could make decisions in life, his own decisions.

Arthur picked up the game and made his way to the cash register.

The gesture was small, but it was a start.

  

* * *

 

 

Alfred felt the tiny bag slap against his chest and he looked down, grabbing the bag before it could fall to the floor.

He held it, then turned it so it was the right way round. His eyes widened and he whipped the small plastic case out of the purple and white bag.

Letting the game sit safely inside one of the bigger bags, and resisting the urge to pat it, Alfred jogged over to where Arthur was striding smartly after Feliks and Toris, and pulled him into a one-armed hug.

Arthur jumped and flushed as he felt Alfred's grin against his cheek, making the innocent gesture far to inappropriate for a public outing and drawing uncomfortably close to the events of the morning.

Arthur shoved Alfred away, complaining about the amount of bags and pointy edges which made hugging an experience to be avoided.

Alfred laughed. “So this means you forgive me, right?” He said, meaning the awkward moment when Alfred had woken up to Arthur's screaming.

Arthur tried to keep his face stern, but for some reason he couldn't stop himself when a grin broke across his face.

Alfred liked it when Arthur smiled. He opened his mouth to say something but was cut off when he heard an un-Feliks-like curse.

It seemed like the skies had opened up to ruin their day.

Rolling grey clouds smothered what had once been a bank of blue sky and released rain that pelted down so thick that it made the hurrying figures of people with black umbrellas and magazines over their heads difficult to see. Soon the pavements where steaming and rivers where running down the gutters, taking with them the grime of London streets.

Abruptly the streets emptied of people until there where only a few figures rushing by, calling taxis and huddling under café roofs to escape the rain.

Alfred made a 'pfft' noise. “You British.” He said. “You'd think you'd be used to rain by now.”

Arthur automatically whacked him in the arm, but he kept his eyes on the sky, transfixed by how heavy the rain was. “It doesn’t always rain.” he defended his country.

There was an appreciative silence as they stood in the doorway of the shopping court, watching the colour drain out of the city, until it was grey, like an old movie.

Arthur liked rain. It gave him an inexplicable rush when it came down this heavy. Maybe there would be lightning. Traffic still flowed lazily through the streets, the rain-water flooding down them making it seem like they where odd looking boats, their reflections broken and churned up as they ploughed through.

“Should we call a taxi?” Toris suggested.

“No.” Feliks replied, as if he where discussing military tactics. “I am not risking the new clothes in this.”

The group sighed collectively, then moved to the wall, setting their bags down and shaking the stiffness and weight-heaviness from their arms.

Arthur watched a young father and his little girl, who sat on his shoulders, wiggling her feet and pointing at the rain for a moment, feeling his lip twitch in amusement as she squealed in delight.

“It's so heavy.”

Arthur glanced at Alfred when he spoke.

“You're a sun person?” He asked.

Alfred shrugged, eyes fixed on the downpour.

“I like rain.” Arthur said, turning his attention to the clouds again. “It keeps things fresh and green in England.”

Alfred grinned at him. “There are no countrysides like the ones in England.”

Arthur turned and smiled at him.

They smiled at each other for a moment, then before Arthur could get too embarrassed Alfred suddenly dashed out of the shopping court and under the waves of torrential rain.

Arthur gaped. “Alfred!” he called into the snake-hiss of rain hitting tarmac “Come back this instant!” Arthur tried not to liken himself to the parent and child he had just been watching.

Alfred spun in a neat circle, letting his trainers drag in the growing puddles, shoelaces trailing, almost as if he was dancing. He scrunched his face up and tilted it back towards the sky, ruffling a hand through his hair as the rain stained it darker and it began to plaster to his head.

“Pfft. Big kid.” Feliks commented, eyelids lowered and glittering.

Alfred had a shock of de-ja-vu as the nightmare he had had in the darkness of his dormitory struck with a vengeance. It seemed so long ago since then. It seemed so long ago since he had a nightmare at all.

The rain pelted against his face as he revisited the wide, empty streets of his dreams. The sheets of ghost rain hadn't felt as warm as the rain did now. This rain was real, tangible, something that when he extended an arm out to touch, didn't give way to a London in a different world, where the buildings locked him in with his demons and the earth didn't fall away in red and galaxies of gravityless London traffic.

“Alfred!” Arthur called again, getting exasperated as he watched the rain soak through Alfred's clothes, like ink pouring over his body, dying them darker.

Alfred opened his eyes to look at the man under the shelter of the mall. He jogged back to the entrance of the shopping court. Arthur sighed, standing a little straighter, relieved that Alfred had finished prating around.

He practically screamed as Alfred threw his sodden arms around Arthur, soaking him. Arthur pushed against Alfred's wet chest and suddenly he was released and Alfred ran away, his laughter echoing back to him through the rain.

Arthur was cold where he was damp and cold gave way to rage. He broke the safety of the shelter and bolted after Alfred, who yelped and took off.

Arthur sprinted after Alfred, puddles of water splashing up and soaking his jeans to the knees. The rain was already soaking through his shoulders, and running down his stomach and back and soon he was just as sodden as Alfred.

Who suddenly turned and enveloped Arthur in his arms before he could skid to a halt.

Alfred shifted his grip to hold him a little closer.

Arthur couldn't do anything except let his hands brace themselves against Alfred's chest. He stopped, trying to clamp down on the burn that was ignited in his stomach and dogmatically making it's way through his body. He wanted to slide his arms around Alfred's broad shoulders, lock his hands behind his head, or just feel the muscles in his back, trace them, like he did when they where asleep. But he couldn't do anything, he didn't have the carelessness he seemed to have in his dreams, where everything was already perfect, healed and light. He couldn't move under the weight of what the implications of such an action might mean, what they would be interpreted as and he was thinking too much.

Arthur ducked his head and focused on breathing through the strange gripping heat in his chest. He focused on the rain as it ran over his hair and rolled down his face, dripping from the tip of his nose and off his chin. It was uncomfortable, but there was so much that there was no point in wiping it away.

His focus on breathing was broken as he felt Alfred's hands shift on his back to cover more space, to touch more of him. The action was almost experimental and Arthur glanced up to see Alfred's face.

Why would he want to touch him? Why would anyone want to touch him? Well he knew the reason people wanted to touch him in the past. But he couldn't understand what it meant now. What any of what Alfred did meant. In part it was his personality. His hero complex. But others...Other actions. He looked away again.

He understood that Alfred was a rare and honestly good person. That was why he saved him when he was in trouble, putting himself at risk when he was already lost and hurt. It was why he took such pleasure in the little actions of affection for others, like cooking for his fellow students, taking care of Toris and Feliks, accepting people for who they where with little gestures like touching their arms, making them coffee and giving easy much needed hugs.

But other actions...The delicate press of his lips, waking up to him wrapped around his body at night, going so far to help him...Him. This worthless nobody. Someone who, had events been different, he never would have met, never been touched by Alfred's glow of happiness, protection...

A fear that was dark and twisting jolted through him and Arthur looked up again. He searched Alfred's eyes behind his softly fogging glasses. He needed to settle this twisting, burning feeling in his chest, to sooth the tightness in his stomach.

Alfred leaned forward and pressed his mouth to Arthur's in a clumsy kiss and the world exploded.

Arthur squeezed his eyes shut and breathed in sharply through his nose. Several droplets of rain broke from the ends of their hair and ran in tiny rivers down their faces. Arthur pressed his hand to the back of Alfred's head, letting his fingertips bury into Alfred's soft, wet hair. He felt a thrill of pleasure as Alfred wrapped his arms around Arthur tighter, letting Arthur feel the strength underneath the wet fabric and soft skin.

Alfred broke away abruptly, worry evident in his face. Arthur stared at him from under lowered eyelids.

Alfred ran his tongue along his lower lip, glancing away and Arthur wanted to kiss away the droplets clinging to his eyelashes.

“I'm sorry.”

Arthur blinked, the words seeming to get lost on the way from Alfred's damp, warm mouth to his brain.

“I shouldn't keep...” What? Kissing you? Touching you?

Alfred lifted a hand and pressed it to his forehead as he looked, face stricken, at nothing. God _dammit_ why was he so obvious?!?

Arthur didn't like Alfred's hand not being on him. He grabbed it and pulled it away from Alfred's face, then pressed his lips to Alfred's as he turned to look at him.

Alfred was kissing Arthur's face passionately, sometimes missing Arthur's lips completely and planting tender kisses against his damp cheeks, the tip of his nose, and his chin.

Alfred pulled away again and Arthur wondered if he had done something wrong.

“I don't understand” Alfred panted, face still so close as if he couldn't actually bring himself to drift too far away. “Earlier...You. You ran away. You didn't want me touching you...”

Arthur took a moment to catch his breath, his heart swooping from the closeness and the intimacy he shared with Alfred was making him feel like he had run several miles. His fingers flexed from where they where gripping the wet fabric of Alfred's jacket at the nape of his neck.

He focused on Alfred's question. Then answered as honestly as he could.

“I don't understand ether.” Alfred blinked and pulled back a bit, but Arthur's tightened grip kept him close. “I don't understand anything. I don't know why you treat me so well. I don't know why you all give me a chance, I don't know why no one looks at me like I'm going to break something or steal from them or dirty them somehow by just existing because that's what people do.” Arthur paused, aware that he was rambling and that his voice had dropped low, making it hard to talk. “At least, they did.” He forced himself to look back at Alfred's face, he was looking at Arthur so openly and it made him want to cringe away, to go crawl into a dark place, but the thought of having to go back to who he was made him feel like something was dying in him. “My brothers just stopped coming back after a while, and I can't help but feel they found something better. I could barely take care of myself and I couldn't do anything about it. I had nothing so no one cared. I couldn't get a job and I couldn't go to school. And I needed money. It was the only thing I could do. And people would just...An no one cared.” Arthur felt like he was tipped over the edge of something and dangerously close to falling, but he couldn't stop the words from coming out of his mouth.

“And It just got worse. It would get to me, what I was doing to myself, and sometimes I would feel like I was going crazy. I would just feel so worthless, Alfred. But then you came.” He gave a choked laugh “You came out of no where and pulled me from it all. You look at me like I have hope, like I matter, and suddenly there are people who...” He frowned at the absurdity of it all.

“I feel like...” Arthur's voice cracked and he broke his focus on Alfred's face. Ducking his head and pressing his mouth to the back of his hand where it gripped Alfred's jumper. He took a deep breath, forcing the air past the chocking lump in his throat. He felt one of Alfred's hands come to grip his wrist, the warmth from it permeating his rain-damp skin. He forced his head back up and re-fixed his gaze on Alfred's deep blue eyes.

“I feel like every one close to me is going to leave.”

That sentence felt like the hardest thing he had said in his miserable life. The strain it took on him was evident in the waver of his voice, the muscles of his back tense and painful, but mostly in his face. Alfred could see the pain and fear in the pinch of his eyebrows, the twist in his mouth, and in his eyes.

Arthur's beautiful, forest green eyes, held a terror Alfred had never seen before, and Alfred caught a glimpse of the void, festering deep inside Arthur.

Alfred sucked in a gasp as if he had been punched, then bundled Arthur tighter in his arms and buried his head in Arthur's shoulder.

After a few seconds of raindrops and traffic noise passed by, Alfred drew back slowly and placed his hands on Arthur's shoulders.

“I can't promise not to leave you.” He said, voice heavy. “No one can promise that. But...I _want_ to stay with you Arthur. I want you to stay at the university and learn things about the subject you enjoy...” Dammit, now his voice was getting all wavery and emotional. “I want you to get a good degree so you can do what you want. And I want you to be happy.”

Arthur was looking at him with an intensity in his eyes as if he didn't know where this conversation was going but he didn't expect it to have a happy ending.

“And I want to be there with you, Arthur.” He said.

Arthur's eyes widened.

“I want to be with you.” Alfred said. “For everything.”

They stood there for a few more moments, Alfred's words hanging in the air. Alfred's hands shifted self-consciously on Arthur's shoulders, the silence causing nervousness to stir in his gut.

A smile tugged at the corner of Arthur's mouth, and the nerves evaporated with the rain.

Alfred grinned back at him. “Can I kiss you?”

Arthur's face erupted pink.

“And you won't run away this time?”

A bubble of awkward laughter escaped Arthur as he tried to stifle the raging emotion in his chest.

Alfred leaned forward slowly, eyes locked with Arthur's until he was just a blur and he closed his eyes to the gentle touch of Alfred's lips. 

 

* * *

 

 

With great pride Alfred plugged the brand new shiny coffee machine with a red plastic top and lots of buttons and lights into his kitchen wall.

He stepped back and admired the machine with pride as it gave a happy bleep. That would teach Feliks. Taking the coffee machine when he moved out. The tranny had some nerve. He didn't even drink as much coffee as Alfred! Just because he paid for it...

He couldn't wait to test it out. Alfred beamed at his machine then called “Arthur! Do you want some coffee!?”

“Tea please.” Came the answering call.

Dammit. Alfred frowned. He would make a coffee drinker out of Arthur yet.

Temporarily abandoning the coffee machine, Alfred headed down the hall, ignoring the slight pang and the sight of the other door, leading to an empty bedroom on the other side of the hall, Alfred opened the door to his room.

Arthur narrowed his eyes at him from where he was sliding on a dry shirt, his hair mused from towel drying it.

“The least you could do is knock.” He said with a strange mixture of affection and scorn.

Alfred walked in and pulled Arthur's shirt back up by the hem.

“HAY!” Arthur cried, flushing and yanking his shirt back down. He opened his mouth to yell at the younger man, but the words died on his tongue at the sight of Alfred's expression.

Alfred's brows where lowered and his eyes where still fixed on Arthur's shirt front, even though Arthur's skin was safely hidden away under the cotton shirt.

Alfred opened his mouth but words wouldn't come. He didn't know what to ask. _Did it hurt? How long had those been there? How did he not notice?_

_Why would someone do that to him?_

What did come out was; “Are they all over?”

Arthur eyed Alfred, the air suddenly suffocating, then he turned and pulled his shirt up.

Arthur's soft pale back was ripped and torn with scars. They criss-crossed and ran in every direction. Some where raised, white, sunken, smooth, jagged. So many of them. Just like his front.

Arthur lowered his shirt and slowly turned around. His shoulders where hunched and he looked like he was trying to gather himself up, as if he where trying to disappear.

Alfred hated that. Hated that Arthur was acting like those horrible scars where his fault.

“I know they're disgusting.” Arthur whispered, holding himself, unable to look at the man in front of him. He had heard it so many times. He never took his shirt off after Francis said it. And now Alfred...

Arthur looked up as he felt hands on his shoulders. The expression in Alfred's eyes made his heart jump.

“Can I take your shirt off?” Alfred asked quietly.

Arthur looked at him, confused, he didn't really want to take his shirt off, to remove his shield, but he nodded.

Alfred knew about some of his deepest scars, then why not some physical ones?

He raised his arms slowly, muscles twitching as he felt Alfred's fingertips brush his stomach, hooking under the hem of the shirt.

He pulled it gently over his body, then tugged it off and dropped it on the ground in a crumpled heap. In his nervousness Arthur thought about the nightmare it would be to iron that out.

He jumped as he felt Alfred's hands on him. Alfred pulled back immediately.

“No.” Arthur said, hating how loud his voice sounded in the stillness of the room “It's ok.”

Alfred stepped closer again, then placed his hands on Arthur's chest, feeling the taunt muscles under his soft, warm skin, and the bumps of a few of his scars. Alfred looked closer, most of Arthur's scars where faded, muted, as if they had been there for so long that they had blended into his skin, healed over and just left this tiny mar on Arthur's body, nothing but a blemish, an imperfection, but they meant so much more.

He ran his hands down Arthur's front, trying not to count ever scar his fingers brushed, that he smoothed over.

Arthur twitched away at one point and Alfred glanced up, afraid that he had gone too far.

Arthur's mouth twitched in a sort of half-smile, unfitting with the look in his eyes. “Ticklish.” He said.

Alfred felt his own face mirror Arthur's, but smiles seemed grossly inappropriate so he let it drop from his face and instead pulled Arthur closer and gripped him in a tight hug.

“It's all right, Alfred.” Arthur soothed and Alfred felt angry that Arthur was doing the soothing. “Most of these are old.”

Alfred gripped Arthur tighter. “It's NOT all right!” He yelled, hating how childish he sounded, he buried his face in Arthur's warm shoulder, “No one should do that to anyone.” The words muffled against Arthur's skin.

Arthur sighed and patted Alfred's back.

Alfred huffed a sigh in response to Arthur's and stood up straight again. “Sit here.” He said, gently walking Arthur back.

Arthur let himself be sat on the edge of the bed and looked up at Alfred questioningly.

His eyebrows rose as Alfred dropped to his knees and gripped his waist with his large, tan hands.

“Alfred!” He squawked, feeling a tug in his stomach. “What are you doing?”

Alfred didn't respond and instead pressed a kiss to one of Arthur's scars.

Arthur flushed and lay his hands on Alfred's arms, feeling Alfred's wrist-brace, the velcro rough against his skin. “Alfred, you don't have too...” Do this? Force yourself?

“I want too.” Alfred replied inbetween warm kisses.

Arthur watched Alfred as he lay a tender kiss on every one of his scars, twisting into odd angles to get the ones low on his waist, tugging the hem of his jeans to catch the ones that ran under the fabric, lifting Arthur's arms to drag his lips over the ones on his ribs. Then when every scar had been accounted for on Arthur's front, Alfred crawled gracelessly onto the bed and started on the ones on his back.

Every so often Alfred would hit a spot that coaxed and shiver and a hum of pleasure from Arthur as he made his way over every one of Arthur's ugly scars, when that happened Alfred would spend a few extra seconds paying special attention to that spot before slowly moving on.

When it ended Arthur was lying on his front, fingers pressing into the soft sheets of Alfred's bed, the man himself laying on his side, hands resting on Arthur's waist, as he lay kisses on the last of Arthur's scars.

Alfred ran a thumb over the last scar where it lay in the curve of Arthur's back, then shifted up the bed, placing his head on Arthur's shoulder and wrapping his arms under his body, holding him close.

“I won't let any one do that to you.” He whispered.

Arthur yawned, warmed by Alfred's body and his affectionate ministrations, “I haven’t let anyone do that to me in years.”

He turned and lay a clumsy kiss on Alfred's cheek, then let himself drift into sleep.


	12. Chapter 12

Alfred sat on the soft, beaten up old couch in the middle of the main room of his dorm. He sat with every muscle in his body relaxed, arm, strapped firmly in the wrist brace, draped over his knee, feeling the worn carpet under his bare toes.

The night had claimed the room for it's own. It's shadows draped and pooled over every surface, under every table, in every corner. The air was still and silent, it almost felt like the entire world was asleep, or underwater, until a car drove passed on the streets below.

Alfred didn't feel the creeping dread that usually accompanied these nights where he found himself alone in the dark. And if he felt those sensations of lurking demons crawling towards him through the darkness, he found that for the first time in what felt like years, he could blink, and banish them before the fear could grip and spiral out of control. There was a peacefulness in the quiet of the night, the tic of the clock counting the seconds deeper into the lateness, or perhaps earliness. Alfred's limbs felt too heavy to get up and check.

Instead, Alfred let himself sink further into the comfort of the threadbare couch, letting familiarity surround him.

As all the mayhem and terror finally seemed to be ebbing, Alfred found himself yet again unable to let his eyelids slide shut and let him sleep. It was as if every time he felt himself slipping into blissful unconsciousness, he lost his grip and fell back into his seat, eyes snapping open again, thoughts tumbling to the front of his mind, to circle and repeat themselves like leaves picked up and sent spiralling by the wind.

Alfred didn't mind though; because instead of waking up in a tangle of sweat-drenched sheets, alone in the dark with just the ringing of his screams, and the pang of pain in his mending hand, it was the constant play-back of recent memories that demanded his attention at stupid-o-clock at night.

Whenever Alfred gave up on keeping his hold on sleep he allowed himself to slip under the surface of the memories and re-live them.

Once again he could indulge in the surge of pride that swelled within him when he received a graded paper back from his psychology lecturer, the grins from his teachers and class-mates as they congratulated him on getting back on his clumsy feet.

He could remember little things, like the numbness in his legs after he had been sitting on the sofa, or at the counter for too long, papers and books scattered around him, pens behind his ears and ink streaked across his jaw.

He had finally unpacked all his posters, his comics with those creepy covers, and his normal alarm clock from that deep, dark recesses in the back of his chest of drawers.

And he could go full nights of restful sleep, in his bed, with his arms around Arthur.

Alfred let a little sigh huff out of him and he leaned his head back, resting it on the back of the squishy, old sofa.

He wasn't completely free. There would be a sound, a sight, or even a smell that would drag him back to that drizzly, dank night, making his bound arm twinge and his muscles tighten in fear.

But Arthur always broke him out of it. One time it was the sudden realisation that smoke was billowing out of the kitchen, causing the sprinklers to come on. Alfred had dragged Arthur out into the hall, ignoring his yells about saving the scones, with all the other, damp and angry students.

Another time it had been the simple press of Arthur's shoulder against his own, making him realise that he was still in his dorm, a ball-point between his teeth and Arthur reading, or scribbling on sheets or note-pads in a strange hand that looked elegant and flowing, yet decidedly messy, and very 'Arthur'.

And Alfred had learned the full extent of the healing power of touch. Nothing quite felt like the comforting drag of Arthur's fingertips, the press of his lips...

He felt his own tingle at the memory and he spared a thought to all the papers he had read about the grounding effect of touch. Well Arthur's was so much more then grounding. It stabilised him when his world span out from under his feet, when he blinked and all he could see was that man's eyes, glinting out at him from the dark, it soothed the jarring pain that flared up from his knuckles when he fell too deep into an intrusive recollection that fell like a screen before his eyes.

The pressure of Arthur's hand on his arm breathed a warmth into him when the cold took hold to drag him back into the panic. He could blink away the images and see Arthur's green eyes looking deep into his.

Alfred thought of the man sleeping in his bed, infusing his scent into the sheets. He hoped that Arthur wouldn't wake up and find the space Alfred usually occupied empty and cooling.

Alfred had made up his mind when he had shifted a little too sharply in his bid to sleep, and seeing the twitch of Arthur's brow, he decided to take his sleeplessness somewhere it wouldn't be contagious.

Alfred couldn't sleep though. Not after a happening this monumental. He was going to mark this day as a yearly celebration. Or this night... Anyway, he was going to make sure this day was remembered every day of his and Arthur's relationship. No. His _life._ And maybe he was getting a little overexcited by this, but it just showed the level of trust that Arthur had placed in him. After it had been so difficult to reassure Arthur in his security, to let him feel safe to take his shirt off in front of Alfred...

But there had been no regret in Arthur's eyes. They had been clear, gazing at him with what could almost have been determination, through the dark of his night-shrouded bedroom. Alfred had swallowed nervously as he sat on the bed, facing him. He could just make out the smirk that Arthur gave him at that, he had told him not to be apprehensive. Needless to say that hadn't helped.

Alfred felt completely justified to feel apprehensive; sitting in his boxers opposite the man he adored who seemed completely relaxed and practically embodying sensuality. He had confidence, he knew he looked good, hell he looked fantastic, and he knew what he was doing.

Alfred felt the cold bite of self-degradation when he realised that he didn't even know where to put his hand. The thought forced his gaze to the bed covers and a burn in his cheeks.

A cool touch to his chin brought his focus back to the man kneeling in his underwear with him.

“Hay...” Arthur was so close that Alfred felt the word against his face. He caught a glimpse of concern in Arthur's eyes. “Do you want to stop?”

Alfred shook his head a tad too vigorously and a smirk tugged at the corner of Arthur's mouth. “So what?” He inquired “You feel as stiff as a board, and not in a good way.”

Alfred felt the flush spread across his face and he tried to loosen his muscles under Arthur's hand.

Arthur's squeezed Alfred's bare shoulder and placed his other hand on his other shoulder. “Well?”

Alfred tried to meet his gaze and school his face into a joking expression but it just came out twitchy and every bit as awkward as he felt. “I'm just a bit nervous...” he said into the night, quietly.

A soft 'hmm'ing sound escaped Arthur's lips as he looked over Alfred's body casually. “Just relax.” he said, voice dipping to match Alfred's tone.

Alfred felt his heart pick up the pace as he felt the cool drag of Arthur's hand down his chest. “You're so confident.” He replied, and it would have been a whine had he not said it so softly.

A strange expression flickered over Arthur's face as he paid particularly close attention to Alfred's right pec, then the smirk was back and Alfred could almost feel the sensuality rolling off him in waves. His breath stuttered as Arthur leaned close, he lost himself for a moment in the heat of Arthur’s body, the puff of breath on his neck.

“It's a mask.” The admittance was a caress against his ear and Alfred sat, blinking stupidly for a moment in the dark.

He leaned back a little bit, catching the smudge of red across Arthur's cheek, and the glint in his green eyes. Alfred was abruptly awair of the cool press of Arthur's hands on his chest. Cool, while the rest of him was blazing hot...

Alfred took Arthur's hands in his, rubbing his slim, soft fingers with his own, as if the transfer of heat would help, unconsciously attempting to take care of Arthur's every qualm and lay his worries to rest.

Alfred caught the flash of confusion on Arthur's face and opened his mouth “Your hands are cold.”

Arthur blinked. “Yes.” he deadpanned.

Alfred smothered the nerves under the comfort of talking about something he was familiar with. “Some people have a reaction in their 'fight or flight' mode where blood is redirected away from their hands so that it can be centred somewhere more important. Like the larger muscles in your body or something. This is so they can fight the reason for their response or run from it. This happens when the person is scared or angry or...” Alfred looked up from his dedicated rubbing, catching the look on Arthur's face before it flickered out and was gone under the smirk.

Alfred blinked at Arthur, the crack in the mask obvious now, the cool glint in his eyes. “Arthur” He said “Are you scared?”

The crack widened and the smirk turned into a grimace. “Not _scared..._ ” he said to the wall.

A small flicker of confidence blossomed in Alfred's chest. He let Arthur's hands slip from his own so he could wrap his arms around Arthur's body. “I just said I was nervous too.” He reminded.

Arthur was silent, but he returned the embrace. Alfred nuzzled against his neck “At least your not angry at me.” He grinned.

Arthur pulled back, a genuine grin on his face “I won't be if you shut up and kiss me.”

Alfred couldn't force the grin off his face even as he pressed his lips to Arthur's. The swell of heat in his chest only seemed to grow when Arthur framed his jaw with his hands and seemed to be trying to kiss the smile off his face. Well that certainly wasn't going to work.

Alfred enveloped Arthur in his arms and felt the mattress dip as the man shuffled closer to him. He ran a curious hand over Arthur's soft back, letting his fingers trace the slight rises of the scars he had all but counted and memorised. 

He felt the soft brush of a sigh against his cheek and then Arthur was tugging and they where falling onto his bed with a soft 'whumpf'. Arthur's mouth was stealing the breath from Alfred's lungs, making his eyelids flutter, his heart to swoop and his stomach to perform backflips and a dance routine.

Alfred's body was on fire and the heat only rose with the damp drag of Arthur's lips and the leg he flung over his thigh.

Peppering Arthur's face with quick kisses, Alfred let his hand wonder the rises and slopes of Arthur's body. Their curves fit together and whatever didn't settle they tangled; their legs, their bumping fingers, and their wriggling toes.

Suddenly Arthur rolled Alfred on top of him, and his breath stuttered into a moan drawn out from the deep recesses of his body, electric at his cock and squeezing volts somewhere near the base of his spine. When the wave rolled over and passed, his neck gave out and he hung his head, arms just about supporting his body with a gentle tremor.

When he lifted his head Arthur's green eyes met his.

“Like that?” He asked in the dark.

Alfred huffed “I've...I've never...”

Arthur blinked his eyes wider. “Ever?” He asked.

Alfred squeezed his eyes shut. “Why didn't we have this conversation before?” He complained, almost to himself.

“Well it's not too late to have it now.” Arthur stated, businesslike beneath him. “So you're a virgin.” It wasn't a question.

Alfred nodded, he knew he oozed Romantic from every pore.

“And your clean?”

Alfred decided he felt grateful for Arthur's relaxed, practised bed manner, because option two was just too dark, sick, and twisting; something like jealousy, but not. He nodded again.

Alfred lifted his head and asked the question he promised himself he would ask when he was fifteen and aching for this. “And you?”

Arthur smiled. It had a twist of bitterness, but mostly it was a strange sort of proud that Alfred found himself grateful for, proud that Alfred was asking the sensible questions. “Yes.” He answered, his voice like his smile. “I have routine check-ups and certain rules I enforce.”

“Had.” Alfred said, in a quick sort of hiccup of a word.

Arthur blinked. “Sorry?”

“Had.” Alfred repeated. Emphasis on the past tense.

Arthur blinked again but slower, letting his eyelashes time the refreshing of his face as it shifted from being laced with dark practice to gentle, clear contentedness. He let himself sink further into the soft pillows supporting his head and let an equally soft smile grace his lips, melting under Alfred's body. “Had.” He agreed.

Arthur moved his hands to rest against Alfred's full biceps, slow, like the air was full, like water. “We don't have to do everything tonight.” His voice lazy. Alfred blinked at the man under him and Arthur let the smile stretch over his mouth, enjoying Alfred's youthful innocence. He drew the smile under control with a breath “There are plenty of other things we can do until we're ready for the _final jump_.” He let the words slide, allowing Alfred a few moments to process what he had said and it's loaded promises. The smile broke back onto his face as he watched the meaning hit and short-circuit Alfred's brain.

Alfred's head dropped onto Alfred's shoulder, brushing the smooth skin with his hair, letting the warmth transpose into his forehead. Arthur shifted beneath him, sliding his dry hands across Alfred's shoulders, to his broad back. They took a few moments to paint each other with their fingers, to stretch their muscles across each other under their skin, to sink into each other and hold it until the electricity built up too much and it had to be expelled.

Arthur let his fingertips glide over the rim of Alfred's boxers, enjoying the tiny shiver just above the band of cotton. Blindly, he slid the fabric down over the curve of Alfred's ass and let them wrinkle at Alfred's thighs when his arms couldn't stretch any further.

The rush of cold air wasn't welcome when Alfred lifted himself to remove the final barrier, dropping his boxers onto the carpet. Alfred only remembered to feel embarrassed when he had pressed his warm palms to Arthur's hips to remove his boxers as well.

Arthur hauled himself up and slung one arm around Alfred's shoulders, pressed his lips to Alfred's and let his free hand slide appreciatively, possessively down Alfred's ribs, the small of his spine, to press against his ass.

Alfred's mouth opened under Arthur's and the air between them mingled, shyness overridden, Alfred put his gym-time to use and lifted Arthur bodily into his lap and slipped his underwear down his thighs.

Arthur released him and fell back into the downy pillows and let Alfred pull his underwear from his ankles, watching him drop it onto the floor to join his own.

Alfred felt the self-degradation bite back with a vengeance. He fought against the swarming voices in his head, but still his gaze was fixed to the floor. Amongst the clamour was his own mental voice, asking him what he was doing and to just man up for godssake.

“Hay.” Arthur's voice was soft, yet it cut through all the others in his head. He found himself blinking at Arthur's soft green eyes. He didn't want Alfred to be afraid, and he reached up and pulled Alfred to him, trying to kiss away the nerves.

Alfred's body relaxed and melted against Arthur's. His stomach muscles tensed under his skin and his lower lip escaped Arthur's in a gasp as their skin and dicks came together, hard and smooth besides the drag of hair and dry skin.

Arthur slid his legs out from under Alfred's and spread them, framing Alfred's hips and bringing them closer.

In another wave of sparks Alfred's neck gave out again, his forehead pressing against Arthur's. He let himself ride it out with the heat of Arthur's skin and the flutter of his eyelashes against Alfred's burning cheek. As the wave faded again it left behind a burning ache that dug a hole in his stomach and had him seeking out Arthur's lips.

Arthur patted Alfred's back in an almost bizarrely comforting manner, setting his heels into the mattress for grip, and rolled his hips upwards.

The jolt that racked through Alfred's body seized up all of his muscles, wrenching his head up, eyes wide, gasping. The pleasure shots ringing from his chest to his toes.

Alfred shifted his arms beneath Arthur's body, gripping tighter and buried his head in the slope of Arthur's neck, his pulse fluttering against his lips, the warmth radiating into his face. The next time Arthur rolled his hips up, he pressed down. There was lightning in his blood and Arthur was setting the air in his lungs on fire. The fire coiled and tensed with his muscles, pressing with him and Arthur and growing. Alfred realised that his mouth was open against Arthur's neck and an unbroken moan was being drawn from him, teased from his body by Arthur. He was playing him like an instrument.

Alfred clamped down on the moan, choking it off into muffled groans. He wanted Arthur to moan like he had. He wanted Arthur to loose control to him and not have to be the one guiding him by the hand. He wanted Arthur to be swallowed by the pleasure with him, pressed against him and as close as possible.

Alfred squeezed his eyes shut tighter and pulled one arm from under Arthur's hot back. He slid his hand firmly over Arthur's ribs, over a dotting of scars, over his curving, rolling hips, to grip Arthur's thigh. He pulled it up, causing Arthur to loose his purchase on the mattress, exposing him and letting their skin connect in so many more ways. Alfred held Arthur's thigh up with the crook of his arm, and rocked his hips.

Arthur's stomach muscles spasmed beneath Alfred's and at last his mouth opened and a cry was wrenched from his throat.

Alfred rocked harder, feeling the wetness grow between them, and pressed his lips to Arthur's, trying to stifle his grin.

Their bodies had become hot and damp and finesse didn't seem to matter any more. They kissed open mouthed, sweating, and gripping each other. Alfred let his head fall to the side of Arthur's jaw as the inferno blazed hotter, harder. He pulled Arthur's leg tighter to their chests, letting himself moan with Arthur.

He had to speak, but he couldn't breath because the air was electric and his lungs where fire, somehow he reconnected his tongue to his brain and stuttered out; “I love you.”

Arthur's body convulsed, jarring his legs, curled his toes and throwing his head back as he cried out clear and loud and came between them.

Arthur's jerking, spasming muscles beneath Alfred set the coiling, sparking, writhing grip inside his body exploding into blinding pleasure. He's pretty sure he screamed, he _must_ have screamed. It rolled through him, relentless and wonderfully destroying, until it ebbed and left him riding out the after shocks against the body under him.

He's almost sure he backed out. He may have even fallen asleep if the squirming hadn't brought the world crashing back into place. He blinked his vision clear and rolled off of Arthur, letting their sensitive bodies have a moment to relax.

Their breathing was so quiet that the sound was nearly swallowed by the night. A few muscles still twitched out the pleasure-tension as he lay there in damp sheets. Then he looked over and met a pare of green eyes that reflected all the caring and love that he felt.

He grabbed the edge of the duvet and pulled it up over them, then he settled his hand against Arthur's cooling waist and flexed the arm still under his body. They settled against one another and closed their eyes.

Alfred breathed deeply, his mind reconnecting. He let his breath ease out as he shifted his aching muscles, sore from where he was sitting on the couch. He must have fallen asleep after all. He kept his eyes closed, hoping that sleep might claim him again and keep him until morning.

His mind refused to shut off. Alfred frowned in defeat and let his eyes slip open.

Ivan Braginski was standing before him.

Alfred blinked slowly up at him from his place on the couch.

He observed the man stood in his university dormitory, seeming to make the room small in his largeness by simply standing there. He was exactly as Alfred remembered him. Tall, imposing, cold. He wore a scarf and long jacket even though they where supposed to be indoors and his face was pale in the dark, his hair was fine and washed out yet, Alfred mused, Ivan Braginski's glittering, violet eyes where still the objects of terror that haunted his dreams.

He couldn't wake up and get Arthur, he was asleep and they had had such a good night. He couldn't wait to talk to him in the morning. Tease him about sex hair and what his voice sounded like, desperate and broken.

But right now he was asleep and dreaming.

He hadn't had one of these dreams in ages. Much less those particular dreams where he was awair he was dreaming, unable to wake himself up.

Like this one.

He watched the man that haunted him raise his arms, a smile on his face, and a roll of duct-tape in his hands.

Ivan stepped out of his field of vision. Or perhaps out of the dream completely. Alfred supposed that was possible.

There was a ripping sound and Alfred felt disappointed that the dream was not over. He really didn't like these dreams.

Suddenly a harsh strip of cold tape was stuck over his mouth and in a swoop of gut-wrenching fear Alfred realised that he wasn't asleep.

Screaming almost soundlessly into the duct-tape, air simply forcing itself from his nose, muted, Alfred flung himself from the couch and landed painfully on the floor. Ivan grinned down at him.

He scooted away in terror, then turned, forced himself to his feet, and made a run for the door that led to the hall, to help, safety, a place away from Ivan Braginski.

Alfred screamed silently again as a relentless grip wound into his hair, yanking him back. Ivan smiled at him, pale lips softly curving, as he sunk his fist into Alfred's stomach.

Alfred went still. Eyes wide and almost blinded in pain. His body went lax and Ivan dropped him onto the floor.

Another plastic, ripping sound cut the air and Alfred just about registered the feel of his ankles being strapped together beyond the white wall of _agony_ and the smell of blood.

He felt one of his arms being lifted but he grit his teeth and pulled it away, making a last-ditch effort for the door.

A foot on his back put a stop to that, crushing him, unforgiving and too hard to breath, to the floor and Alfred struggled weakly as his wrists where bound.

A wave of nausea rolled over him as he was hoisted off the floor and over Ivan's broad shoulder.

Alfred screamed behind the tape as he watched his dorm slip away, the door closed, and was spirited away down the halls that where supposed to be his haven.


	13. Chapter 13

Arthur knows books.

The library was his sanctuary when the Church was not.

It's bricks where his home when his house was not.

It's lyrical caresses where his lover when bodies where not.

Words where his mother, his father and his religion. They made up his life, shaped his upbringing and coaxed his mind into bloom.

A fragile bloom that was constantly tossed and stamped on, it's stem snapped and petals dipping, it's colour faded and its scent polluted.

And again. And again. And again- words restored him. They lifted his petals to the sun, kissed perfume back into his beaten body and flooded every microscopic capillary with vibrant, vivid, fiery, life-giving _colour_.

Yes, Arthur _knew_ books. He liked the intimacy he shared in letters, in language. He, secretly, secretly in his heart of hearts, adored their individual birth in his brain and their introduction to the world on his tongue. He adored their shape and sound; comforting and protective, his sharp, stabbing weapon at his disposal, his personal assassin. But after the ebb and lull of violence, words where his comfort.

He would keep his back pressed to the cheap emulsion wall; in the dark. A perfect vantage point where no one could take him by surprise. His knees drawn up and some tome in his hands- and he was transported.

Arthur felt the soft white light against his eyelids and consciousness flooded his mind.

He smiled and shifted slightly, glowing in the feeling of his naked skin against the soft, cool, high-count sheets of Alfred's bed. There was no way these where university-provided, Alfred must have brought them from home.

Alfred's bed.

Arthur couldn't think of a place he would rather be. Here he didn't need to be transported. Not any more. For once, reality wasn't a terrifying concept, but something he reeled in, something he enjoyed the taste of and wanted to savour, like Alfred's cooking.

There was a pleasant hum in his muscles as he stretched them, running in hot bursts, especially in his thighs and stomach. He resisted the temptation to run his hands down his chest, down his stomach and let his fingers run over his penis, and instead pushed his arms above his head, craning his head back into the pillow and watching his fingers curl in the air, flick against the paint of the wall.

Rolling over he let his gaze fall over the empty bed.

Arthur felt a loneliness settle deep in his chest, burning cool somewhere just behind his breastbone, then rolled gracelessly out from under the sheets, flailing his leg to toss the clinging sheets off, determined to find the man that would cure him.

Arthur pads over to Alfred's wooden chest of draws, pulls open the bottom draw, resistant in its old age, and peers inside. Alfred's socks are a mismatched, multicoloured mess, and his underwear look like they were once folded and placed into neat piles, but some time ago had been knocked over and rummaged through. Arthur let his fingers run over the soft cotton before pulling out a pair of stars-an'-strips Calvin Kline boxers.

“Alfred?” Arthur called, pushing open the half-open wooden door. Usually he hated doors left half open. They made him feel paranoid and exposed, as if things could get in at him, watched him from their shadows. Here he didn't feel that spike of discomfort. Instead he breathed deeper and gazed up and down the narrow dormitory hall, as if crossing a road.

Arthur walked down the sun-drenched corridor and pushed open the bathroom door. A quiet had settled over the rooms which carried a whisper of spring. It was in the sunshine and the carpets, the birds singing and the air. Even the cars drifting by on the streets below sounded hushed and lazy. He passed Feliks' old room and felt a breath of sadness. He had only been here a few weeks, but he still felt when Feliks had gone, he had left a gaping hole where he had been, even if he had just moved down a few doors.

Arthur stepped into the main room and breathed the empty air.

A sudden sense of de-ja vu overcame him, and a warm buzz settled in his chest with the feeling of being here before. When Arthur was young he used to wonder up to relatives whose faces where lost in their immense, tree-like height, tug on the knee of a woman's red chiffon dress or a man's dark, pin-striped trouser and say “Sometimes I travel back in time.”

The warm feeling was a remnant of the past. It was a buzz of affection for his younger self, and it touched him now.

Arthur, bringing the touch of past with him, walked around the counter and flicked on the switch to the kettle. After a moment of buzzing, he let the buzzing float up from his chest, up his throat and out his mouth in a tuneless hum, and curled his toes against the tiles.

Arthur frowned, silenced, and half-turned towards the main-room.

There was a tingle on the back of his neck, like the one you get when someone is watching you from behind. Arthur didn't like the feeling. There was a tingle, but the only thing watching him was the blank, white wall.

Not even The Void.

Not even the void was watching him, and yet, there was a tingle.

Arthur let his body follow his head, all of him facing the Tingle. Then he went towards it.

Perhaps it was in the way the couch was shunted slightly to the side, off centre and facing just slightly away from the television in a manner that would have proved annoying if it had been for a long time. Perhaps it was in the silence of the room, the hushed, muffled quiet. Perhaps, as Arthur looked down, lifted his foot, and stared at the crusty, red, coppery smear of blood on the sole, it was in the blood spattered carelessly, and lovelessly, on the cream dormitory carpet.

 

* * *

 

 

The hammering was steady and loud, thundering through the room to the bedroom.

Feliks startled so violently out of Toris' arms and onto the unforgiving carpet that, for a moment, he was surprised at being there.

When he and Toris pulled open the door they where greeted with the sight of Arthur, breathless, in nothing but a pair of boxers and a crumpled shirt.

“Is Alfred here?” He barked, wiled eyed and panting.

Toris shook his head “No, Arthur. What's wrong, what's happened?”

Arthur twitched a blink, eyes flashing form one man to the other. “He's gone, blood near the door, I found this-” He lifted a coin in a shaking hand “In the doorway.”

Feliks clasped Arthur's hand in his. “Arthur. We're going to get Mr Felicita. It's going to be ok.”

 

* * *

 

 

Arhtur couldn't possibly see how it was going to be ok. There was a clawing, sick feeling in the pit of his stomach that infected the rest of his body with every breath he took. It was like the air was poisoned and as he breathed he drew it deeper into himself.

They crowded close to each other in the dark, cramped room of wires and shelves, staring at a screen with a flickering picture of black and white footage.

The screen was showing them images of the corridor outside Alfred and Arthur's room, flickering, empty. The white timer was counting the hour later and later, as they sped forward through the images, then earlier and earlier until 12:00 flashed passed, then 1, 1:30, 2, 2:30, then bang.

2:35am.

A man walked up the hall, tall, broad and sure, stopped outside the door, turned the handle, and went in, leaving the door ajar.

Seconds passed and the room of poison and people hold their breath.

At 2:38am, the figure emerges again; Alfred bound and gagged over his shoulder.

The air in the room had gone so still that it died in Arthur's throat, the image of Alfred being taken away burning itself into his eyes.

Vaguely, from some place far, far away, Arthur hears his teachers voice.

“Is that him?”

“That's him.” Toris replied.

 

* * *

 

 

For Alfred, consciousness came unwillingly, and not without a fight. 

Images came and went, slowly, yet too quick for his mind to comprehend. It was like an underwater cinema, where the man with the projector moved as if in slow-motion, but the images where cast upon a screen, only to disappear.

There was blackness again.

At one point he had been awair of himself sitting, his head resting heavy on his arms, yet unable to wake up, his body too heavy, his mind too disconnected. There was a lurch and he was in blackness again.

Too heavy, he thought, or did he say it out loud? Let me sleep.

He could swear he heard voices. Whispering voices, like a crowd of people in a room, some far away, some so close they could speak into his ear. They called to him, their tempo unpredictable, then there was Arthur's voice, sudden and out of the dark;

“Open your eyes.”

With a jolt and a choking gasp, Alfred woke up.

He blinked to clear his head. There was a ringing in his ear and he rubbed his head against his shoulder, eventually it faded and ceased to exist. Alfred groaned and the sound sounded too loud in the room. Where was he? He lifted his heavy head and looked around.

The room was alive.

It was dark, festering and dripping. Parts of its bones jutted out of the walls, the ceiling, and the floor, metal, rusted, but gleaming out of the putrid shadows. It groaned in its pain, the wind whistled through its cracks, the holes in its skin, allowing some of the reek out into the crisp, night air. Some of its pain, caught on a breeze and blown away.

Alfred sat on a thick pipe that burst out of the floorboards and back into the ground like a sea monster. His arms where held out before him, wrists bound together in a kind of ironic act of prayer, handcuffed to what looked like a large water faucet, that rose above his head and curved back down at the end.

“Добрый вечер, Alfred.”

Fear lanced through Alfred's chest, burrowing deep and cold and sick as he turned towards the voice, eyes wide, breathing shallow.

He couldn't breath, couldn't blink, couldn't tear his eyes away from the looming figure emerging from the gloom of the shadows.

Gloom, except for the glint of lavender eyes, and the cool steel of a knife.

Alfred chocked on his own spit and wrenched at the handcuffs. The cuffs bit into his wrists, and the faucet didn't even move. He cried out and pulled with all his strength, ignoring the wail of pain in his right knuckle. Ivan watched him, smiling happily, eyes crinkling around the sides, running a pale finger along the blunt edge of the blade. Alfred tried to stand up, tried to get to his feet, but it was like they weren’t part of his body, as if they belonged to someone else, they where a dead weight, a weight keeping him there. A moan of fear rose out of his throat and he tried again, pushing against the floor, he shifted away from the towering monster minutely.

Ivan's slow, methodical steps echoed through the building, ringing in the darkness, until he stopped next to Alfred.

“Hello, Alfred.” Ivan regarded him leisurely. “It is good to see you again.”

He walked around Alfred, watching him, observing his fearful glances, the goose-flesh rise on Alfred's bare legs and arms beneath his short sleeved shirt and boxers. He came to a halt in the place he had been before. “Did you enjoy my gift?”

Alfred's eyes snapped to him and the taller man giggled, letting his head roll to the side, seeming grotesquely boneless for a moment. “Do you want to know how I got into your house? Your sweet little home with so many people in it, hhhmmmm?”

Ivan seemed to interpret Alfred's rattling of the handcuffs as a positive response. “I placed a coin in your door, so that, when you locked it, or” he giggled _“thought_ you locked it, the lock would hit the coin and not fall into the slot in the door, leaving it open for me. Open, so kind of you to be waiting for me. _”_ Ivan giggled again, softer, eyes fixed on the knife. “You must have felt very safe in your house.”

Alfred's throat had seized up, so tight he could barely drag air through his dry throat to his lungs, but he swallowed and in the brief gap he forced out “why?”.

“Hmm?” Ivan seemed distracted by his knife and he broke gaze with it as if Alfred had interrupted a conversation, he smiled softly under Alfred's undivided attention.

Ivan looked back at the knife. He ran his violet eyes along it's long, smooth blade.

“I do so love the colour red.”

Alfred wondered if Ivan had decided to ignore his question and stared at him unblinking with fear as Ivan hunkered down to be eye level with him. Violet to blue.

Ivan brought up the knife and Alfred screamed as he ran the glass-like blade across his forearm, gently opening up the flesh.

“My country used to love the colour too.” Ivan's voice spoke softly under the screams as he watched the blood roll down Alfred's arm, dripping from his spasming wrist. His eyes flicked up to Alfred's face, watching the pain scrunch up his handsome features. “You see. Your country used to hate my country.” He whispered, as if explaining to a small child. _“ненависть. Hate_ it. They almost initiated nuclear war against each other! _”_

Ivan stood up and walked to Alfred's other side. He laughed softly to himself “The world was so _terrified_.'Will they, wont they?' They would say. 'Are we all going to die?”. He crouched down again and just seemed to listen to Alfred's whimpers for a moment.

“Would we live- nuclear winter?”

The building groaned.

“Lucky for me, it is almost always being winter where I come from.”

Ivan raised the knife again, blood already congealing on the blade, coppery and dark red. A flash of anger crossed his face as Alfred flinched away. He grabbed Alfred's arm below the elbow and dragged him back into place, holding him still.

“Alfred.” He sighed. “If you move, it will hurt more.” He opened up another line of red in Alfred's arm, this one horizontal, to be different.

Alfred's yelling echoed in the building, then dimmed to whimpers.

“They used to say; 'Better dead than red' you know.” He said conversationally, his eyes flickered up to meet Alfred's. “As if it where shameful to be communist.” He rolled his eyes and made a tutting sound. “To be communist is to be equal. Would you rather be dead, Alfred?”

Abruptly Ivan released Alfred's arm and stood. “Of course not.” He answered himself, Alfred was too busy crying to give him an answer anyway. “That is why I bring you here.”

This time he crouched down right in front of Alfred, so he could meet his eyes. “Not just you Alfred, not just Toris either. I first knew this was what I must do when my sisters where taken from me. One went to Belarus, the other to Ukraine. I couldn't have them taken form me. Why do you think it was that they where taken from me, Alfred? Hhhmmm?”

Ivan paused and cocked his head to the side, as if genuinely curious, violet eyes glowing eerily in the gloom. Alfred didn't answer through the tears and the blood and the pain.

Ivan shuffled closer, shoes crunching in the grime. He ran his tongue over his pale lip and whispered “So I could reform, represent, reunite the Soviet Union. One. Person. At. A. Time.”

Ivan stood again, excitedly bustling around Alfred. “Now I know what you are thinking! You are thinking 'But, Ivan. Ameryka was not in the Soviet Union!” He spun, scarf spinning. “Exactly.” 

Ivan leaned forward, wagging a finger, then placing his hands on his knees, “Exactly. But when I found you, Alfred, when I found you I knew. I knew it. Keeping you would feel so much more just than keeping Toris.”

There was a bang and Alfred's heart stopped, he squeezed his eyes shut, and for a moment he knew he was going to die.

An almighty screech of protesting metal rent the air and Alfred turned, his stomach feeling weightless.

Arthur, wild-eyed and feral, released the door and threw himself at Ivan.

Alfred's eyes snapped back open, his heart re-started, to see Ivan spin away from him, swinging the blade at Arthur's face, Arthur ducked to the side, leaning back, then used the momentum to arc one leather-clad, steel-tipped boot down soundly upon Ivan's head. Ivan hit the floor before he knew what had happened.

Ivan crawled towards his blade, reached for it- Arthur kicked it away and it sang, metal on metal into the dark. Ivan caught Arthur's leg and sank his teeth into it, harmless against the leather, but strong enough to bruise. Arthur grunted and was brought to the ground by Ivan's unmovable strength. He rolled until he was released, catching Ivan's neck between his shins and locking his ankles, Arthur began to squeeze.

“Arthur, _stop._ ” Alfred, heart pounding, turned to the yawning door of the warehouse. Feliks stood, panting, with Toris, two officers and his teachers. The rain was pouring outside and through the cracks and gaping tears in the roof, like bleeding wounds. Lightning flickered and the boom of thunder resounded in the gloom.

“Arthur, let him go.”

Toris' voice was soft. It jarred Arthur to hear him speak. To ask for the life of the man who had all but taken theirs. It showed as no more than a flicker on Arthur's face. The walls remained up. They didn't know what he has done, what he has had to do before.

Ivan was turning purple, his grip on Arthur's legs brutal. A death grip. Arthur put more power into the lock around Ivan's airways, his strength was his rage, his hurt, his fear and his hate.

Hate burned through his eyes and willed death upon the creature, choking for life, at his delicious mercy.

“Arthur...”

His gaze was broken and Arthur looked, wide-eyed at his lover, chained and bleeding.

“Arthur...”

Arthur screwed his face up, pressed his mouth together, and his eyes closed.

He couldn’t look at what he was about to do.

He released Ivan, who's choking sobs for breath where accompanied with the click of handcuffs and Arthur's livid, furious yell. His built up frustration, and a dark part inside him, escaping.

The larger officer yanked Ivan upright.

As Ludwig dragged Ivan beyond the doors of the rotting building, Ivan's violet eyes remained fixed on Alfred, then he was lost from sight.

Alfred felt his head fall forwards and with a gasp he pulled himself back from the brink of unconsciousness. Arthur was patting his face, muttering comforts and profanities onto his tear-stained cheek .

The brunette officer hurried forwards, holstering his gun, fumbling the handcuff keys. “Officer Vargas at your service.” He trilled. “If you could follow me there is an ambulance waiting to take you to the nearest hospital.”

He managed to fit the tiny keys into the lock and free Alfred's bruised, bleeding wrists. Arthur, in a pair of jeans and a shirt that where a few sizes too big, and The Leather Boots, grabbed his hand and ran his slender fingers over the knuckles. He sighed after confirming that there was no extra damage done.

Arthur then dropped Alfred's hand and threw his arms around the taller man's neck, pressing his lips to Alfred's chapped and bitten mouth. There was a moment as if the world has stopped turning and it was just them, murmuring to each other love and pain and comfort. Alfred wrapped his arms around Arthur's slim back, staining the shirt Arthur had borrowed with his blood and revelling in having him near.

“When we get home” Arthur whispered, voice trembling, breaking “I am chaining you to the kitchen sink.”

Alfred gave a sobbing bark of laughter, a few tears rolled down his cheeks, then allowed Arthur and the police to guide him away from the moaning building.

Outside the air was cold and clean, Alfred tipped his head back and gazed at the stars letting the rain fall over his face until his vision began to swim. Mr Felicita greeted them and dragged Alfred into a one armed hug.

“Good to see you, Al.” He muttered, voice faltering.

Alfred grinned at him, managing a weak bump against his teachers arm with his bruised fist before the medics descended on him with a shock blanket, a stretcher, and an ambulance.


	14. Chapter 14

Arthur had gone to the police himself, and he'd brought his friends.

“There are several places he could have taken him to.” Toris had told them, eyes wild, the past threading itself into him, needles and thread, needles and thread. “His apartment is on the outskirts of London, close to where I used to go to university, but not too close to people.”

They huddled together in the hall of the police station; Arthur, Toris, Feliks, Mr Felicita, Mr Schmied and their nephews- two men who's resemblance to their uncles was uncanny. Feliciano Vargas and Ludwig Beilschmidt. Arthur recognised them as the two officers who had been flanking Francis, he remembered the pity in their eyes, the expressions like betrayal as their superior became something they did not recognise before them.

“He wouldn't have gone there though.” Toris continued. “He would have taken him somewhere he could...indoctrinate him.”

“What?” Mr Felicita exclaimed, eyes wide.

Toris' eyes shifted to the teacher “To get him used to the idea of being in the 'soviet'.”

A surge of exclamations of confusion and rage rose until Ludwig forced it to simmering point once again with raised, placating hands and a calm voice.

“What do you mean the 'soviet'? There is no Soviet any more.” Arthur's tone was accusing to match the shock of rage in his eyes, the curl of his lip showing glimpses of shining white teeth, though his friends knew it was not directed at them.

“Ivan is obsessed with the Soviet Union.” Toris explained hurriedly, eyes flashing from face to face. “He has stacks of books, these..artefacts..documents. He has people...” Toris swallowed and Feliks' grip on his arm tightened. “He has people there, where he lives. They're from all the places the Soviet Union used to rule over...”

“ _Jesus...”_ Mr Felicita breathed.

“Ukraine....Belarus...”

Arthur looked at Toris. “Lithuania...” His voice tight.

Feliciano nodded. “We've been working on it under Bonnefoy's nose.” He whispered conspiratorially, indicating himself and his companion. “There are some missing persons cases we've been trying to find connections with to the area and Ivan Braginsky. We found some who fit the profile...One of them a 'Ravis Galante' ”

Toris nodded. He had known Ravis. Cooked and cleaned beside him. Tried to keep his tiny form from being completely broken, hidden alcohol for his own good.

Arthur was momentarily confused. “But why would he trade Toris for Alfred? Alfred's American. What could he possibly want with him?”

Toris felt the beginnings of a headache set right where the frown lines where etched in his young forehead. Raising his eyes to meet Arthur's was difficult.

He spoke three words, softly, like an apology.

“The Cold War.”

Arthur felt a spike of icy dread. He rubbed his hands over his face and carded them through his hair.

Felik's grip brought Toris back. “Where will he be, Liet.” Feliks' tone was encouraging, his eyes; steel.

Toris breathed, he glanced at his partner. In that moment he promised himself that one day he would marry this man, no matter how long it took for the world to catch up with them.

He addressed the group again. “There are warehouses. Three. They're stationed around his house but not close.”

“Have you been there before?” Ludwig questioned.

Toris nodded.

They left that building behind. Arthur lead the way out of that cramped hall, passed Bonnefoy on the ground groaning where Arthur had left him. After raised voices, hands on the counter and a well placed fist. Arthur had put all his weight behind that punch.

His steel toe-caps clicked on the floor.

 

* * *

 

 

The first warehouse had been empty.

The hole in Arthur's stomach expanded. The pain was agonising but not a flicker crossed his face. He couldn't afford that. He couldn’t let a single wall come down or Arthur wasn't sure he would ever be able to fix himself. Instead he kicked the huge sliding doors that hadn’t slid open so much as screeched and screamed, catching in rust and it's own rotten body.

Arthur was bouncing out of his own head. “They're taking too long.” He said darkly, watching the officers search the building.

Feliks looked at him, green eyes flashing. “At least they're doing their job.”

Arthur relaxed his hand, then drew it into a fist. Then relaxed his hand, and drew it into a fist. “But they are taking too long.”

Feliks watched the officers dart about in the darkness of the warehouse's shell. His body felt tight under his plain clothes. He wouldn't let this happen. Arthur, Alfred, Toris, any of it. He wouldn't give Ivan that.

“We'll find him, Arthur.”

Arthur's fist hit the metal wall and the clang reverberated like thunder in the dark. “Like fuck you will!” He yelled, voice echoing. “He'll be fucking _dead_ by the time we get to him at this rate.”

Feliks faced the man before him. Eyes hard. “He wont be dead. Ivan wont kill him...”

Arthur threw his arms in the air “Oh well, that's reassuring. He wont be dead, but we don’t know what’s happening or what he _will_ do _._ ”

“You think I don’t care?” Feliks bellowed. “You think I don't care about the man I've known most of my life? That I don’t care about what happens to him while he's with that maniac?! I do care. Of course I do.”

Arthur's eyes softened.

They breathed the night air.

“I'm going to the third warehouse. We have to find him as soon as possible.”

“Arthur, NO!” Feliks shouted but Arthur was already pelting down the street, steel clicking. “HE'S A PSYCHOPATH, ARTHUR!...ARTHUR?!”

 

* * *

 

 

The address Toris had given them echoed in Arthur's head as he ran through the night. A light drizzle had begun to fall and it settled in his hair and on his skin.

Arthur turned another corner, went down another dank ally and finally, before him loomed the rotting and rusting remains of a huge warehouse.

Arthur placed his hands on the cold, slick metal and heaved, inside there was Ivan, and there was Alfred.

Something wild birthed in Arthur's chest and consumed him. It took him over as nothing had but the void, it encompassed the rage that had festered within him, and it had the power that had kept Arthur living, day in, day out his entire life.

He would kill him. He knew he would kill him. Hitting Ivan was not enough. He had to suffer.

He had to die.

There was Feliks. They had chosen follow him to warehouse three instead of checking warehouse two. He could hear him. It was nothing. They didn't know what he has done to survive. They didn't know about the blood on the walls, the ghosts in his floorboards, the man who followed him home.

“Arthur...”

He had to kill him, pushed against the plaster of his own home, nails digging into flesh. The blade on the mantelpiece was not there for sentiment. He had stabbed him where he knew he should stab if he wanted to stay living. The man's head had dented the floor where he fell.

“Arthur...”

He looked up.

Alfred. Vulnerable, hurt, Alfred.

He loved him. He would kill to protect him. He would do anything for Alfred.

Even let Ivan go.

Arthur is nothing but honest with himself, because who can deny truth? Arthur felt regret in sparing the life of Ivan Braginski.

But he would never let that poison his relationship with Alfred.

He loved him too much.

So he held Alfred, who held Arthur and they cried and shivered the terror away.

Arthur sat with Alfred in the ambulance and held his hand as the doctors pronounced concussion, several deep bruises and cuts that needed stitches and rebound his hand.

He stayed with Alfred while he was kept under supervision through the long, aching night in the sterile, warm hospital ward. They smiled at each other about the alarming regularity concussions seemed to have in their relationship.

He stood with Alfred and helped him back into their dorm, ever present with a steadying hand at every wobble, at every wince of pain that crossed Alfred's perfect, bruised face.

They lay together that night for the first time in what felt like weeks, curled, hands clasping as Arthur tried to keep Alfred from touching his stitches.

“You're too good.” Arthur spoke into the night. Cotton soft beneath his head, watching Alfred's blue eyes in the comfortable dark. “I wanted to kill him.”

They where silent for a few moments. Holding each other.

“I know.” Alfred said. There was no disapproval, no fear or disgust in Alfred's voice. “He didn't deserve that.”

Arthur started to protest, to shift out of their comfortable silence, Alfred gently motioned for him to listen, eyes imploring, hands squeezing the warm, pale ones under his. He kissed their freckles.

“He deserves professionals looking at him.” He said, softly into the sleeping hours. “He deserves any diagnostic they apply and the help they can give, and the jail time they sentence him to.”

Arthur settled and pressed closer to what he was sure was the love of his life. “I felt so close to loosing you.” He whispered. “I felt so close to loosing the best thing that has happened to me. The world might not have gotten it's hero.” He chuckled and a tear rolled down his cheek to disappear into the pillow.

“Death would have been too harsh and too easy for him.” Alfred finished. He kissed Arthur, and rested his forehead against his.

They fell asleep like that. Curled around each other, hands clasped under their chins and close enough to breath the same air.

Safe and in love, the world stretched wide and endless into the future.


	15. An Epilogue of Sorts

Looking at his reflection in the small circle he'd wiped in the fogged bathroom mirror Feliks popped his rose-pink lips and smiled at the blur of Toris, reflected in the frosted pane standing, leaning in the doorway.

Feeling the pull of the space between them, Feliks turned and they stepped into each other's arms.

Toris pressed his lips to Feliks', tasted cherries, and drew back with a gasp.

“Is that...?”He whispered into the close, warm air between their mouths.

Feliks grinned as Toris drew his thumb along the edge of his lower lip, wiping a smudge of lipgloss away. “It is. The exact same brand as the one you used to buy for me, back in Poland, do you, like, remember?”

Toris tried to frown to show his confusion but found that he must have been out of practice because his frown was more like a smile.

“I know.” Feliks beamed “When we left I, like, couldn’t find it _anywhere_. I searched every store, like, as soon as I touched down in England and _all_ the imported goods stores and even online but it was, like, _no where_. But then I found this tiny little _adorable_ Polish food store, where I get my Polish snacks, and right at, like, the back I found it, like, the _exact same_ lipgloss you used to get me. When we where together, in Lithuania.”

Toris smiled widely and, closing their eyes, they pressed their foreheads together. It was almost as if when they opened their eyes again they would be standing in green fields that would stretch far into the blue distance, over rolling hills of grass, the smell of trees after rain on the breeze. They would be in a place and a time far, far away.

“It almost feels like a lifetime ago.” Toris whispered, words brushing Feliks' sparkling lips.

“It was.” He sighed.

Toris could almost smell the sunshine of those carefree days on the hill top. Talking about dragons and how they where going to get married, the taste of fresh cherries...

From half-lidded eyes Toris watched Feliks' lips part to form his next words. “...Did you ever think of going back there?”

“Every day.” Toris moved his head back so Feliks' green eyes where in focus. “Not one day went by when I didn’t think about our time there. Sometimes I would smell cherries and someone would laugh and I would think it was you, just for a moment and...” he choked on the spike of memory-pain, muted, but recognisable as pain. “Not one second went by when I didn't miss you. I thought about our lives together on the continent and a part of me longs to be back there...”

They spend a moment breathing out the air of their memories, hilltop breeze and sunshine, and breath in the air of their present; hot steam from the shower and London's brisk night-time warmed by radiators.

Toris takes Feliks' soft, cold hand in his, broad and hot. “But that's our past, not our future.” He breaths the last of the memory out, and it dissipates, gone. “I feel like we can make something here...”

Feliks startles slightly at this, widening the intimate bubble they created. “Do you not want to go back... home?”

The word fell flat as it never used to do all those years ago. Home just wasn't that place any more and in their own ways they wondered if _that man_ was to blame for that. But in actuality he wasn't, not in that way.

Toris steps toe to toe with Feliks, hands clasped between them. “I think we can make a home. A new home. Here.”

“But I thought we where only going to study abroad, and then...?”

“Feliks.” Toris holds Feliks' hand firmly, in the way he did when he wanted Feliks to hear something important. “Wherever you are, that’s home. Whenever we're together, we're home. _Never_ forget that.”

Feliks looked Toris in the eyes. For a few moments there's silence inside the bathroom, the sound of traffic beyond quiet and unobtrusive as he reads his lover, searching his warm, brown eyes.

Feliks squeezes Toris' hands back and smiles, small and pink. “Your right, Liet. We can do anything. And I'm not afraid of the future if you're with me.”

Toris' grin lights up his face. It's as though darkness and fear had never touched it. He picked Feliks up, broad forearms secure against his narrow waist and Feliks' pink and crème skirts ripple as he spins them in fast circles.

He set Feliks, laughing, to his feet. “I'm going to get a job while you focus on studying. I was gone for so long, and since I’m an international student, the university thought I had dropped out and had no one to contact. I'm going to work hard and save up money. Then, I’m going to marry you again.”

“What?” Feliks' eyes go round, his mouth moue.

Toris' grin goes soft and crooked at the edges as he looks at how the bathroom light catches in Feliks' eyes. “Now that it's legal I won't settle for a lesser marital status. I want to marry you, Feliks. Properly. I love you, Feliks.”

“I love you too, Toris!” Feliks hurls himself into Toris' arms and they spin wildly, almost floating off their feet.

 

* * *

 

_To Alfred, tha__

Backspace.

_My Dearest Al__

Backspace backspace.

_My Alfred, whom I owe__

Definite backspace.

_To Alfred, my lo__

Arthur held the backspace too relentlessly under his finger and cursed as a few ending sentences disappeared into cyberspace. He hit undo and they blinked back into existence.

The tap of rapidly clicking keys and dark muttering had been the only sounds for the last solid few hours. The room was illuminated only by the soft glow of a lamp and Arthur's computer screen.

He'd been typing out the dedication for, what felt like the last few months. He'd tapped out a few initial sentences and then quickly realised that he just couldn’t simplify what he felt for Alfred into a single line of text. So he expanded, and edited, and cut pieces out entirely, then typed them back up almost word for word, then deleted them again, with a viscous hand.

Arthur sat back and rubbed his fingertips against his chin.

For a while now he'd been trying to articulate his feelings about Alfred. Both verbally and in writing. He wanted to let Alfred know how he felt, but there was something stopping him, something disgustingly like fear, like the void. He and Alfred slept together every night, and had sex whenever they wanted, and in those close, hot moments something gripping tight in his chest relaxed and almost fell away. He would open his mouth to expand upon what he'd said that first time, whole poems, soliloquies, monologues on what Alfred made him feel, and then the fist of fear would clamp shut again and so would his mouth. He could tell that Alfred knew, could read the conflict in his eyes, but he never pushed Arthur, and for that he was grateful.

Arthur didn't want to say that he had trust issues, but every time Alfred sat down amongst his work, or he walked by one of his psychology books, set innocently on whatever surface, inside Arthur a small voice whispered the truth, not harshly, not self-loathingly as it once had, but still the truth, and sometimes the truth hurts.

The sound of a key fitting into the door broke Arthur from his reverie and he hit minimise with lightning speed.

Alfred threw the door open, hollering and laden down with a shopping bag, his satchel, and a plate with a plastic cover over it. He threw on the lights and pulled off the layers he had bundled up in against the cold; a light scarf that Arthur had tied around his neck that morning, tugging on it to pull him down for a kiss before he left, and the worn old bomber jacket were hung haphazardly on a peg. Arthur let his eyes trail appreciatively over the soft, dark sweater Alfred had on. It stretched slightly over his broad chest and shoulders and it was Arthur's favourite.

He tossed his satchel and the shopping bag onto the sofa and skipped over, carrying the plate in his hands, to where Arthur sat at his desk. Alfred bowed and lifted the plastic lid with a flourish. Beneath it was a triple layer, deep red cake with white frosting crowning the top.

“Oh, Alfred.” Arthur raised his fingers to his mouth. “Red velvet cake. That's my favourite.”

Alfred ducked and kissed him on the nose. “I know. I made it at Feliks and Toris' so it would be a surprise, a 'you're awesome and deserve cake' present, for finishing your book.”

The cake looked rich and sweet and Arthur imagined it cut into a wedge and placed on the delicate china plate he had bought at one of their favourite charity shops, he imagines it next to a hot cup of tea in a cup that matches. He had seen the set, with their scalloped edges and tiny, hand-painted flowers, just like the ones he'd always imagined having, and he'd fallen in love.

“You get more when you get published.” Alfred gave him his lopsided grin and Arthur slid his hand over Alfred's jaw, feeling the the chill of outside that still clung to him and the slight scratch of new stubble on the palm of his hand.

“In that case I owe you dozens of scones, shall I make you some?”

Alfred's eyebrow twitched “That won't be necessary.”

Arthur tutted but tilted his head and pressed his lips to Alfred's. He breathed in through his nose and broke the kiss quietly. Arthur wrapped his arms around Alfred's neck. “How was the lecture, _professor._ ” He murmured.

Alfred grinned against Arthur's lips. “I'm not a professor.” He said between kisses “But they...really...liked...my talk mmmmm on...what was my talk on?” He asked dreamily, pressing forwards, seeking Arthur's lips with his own.

Arthur disconnected their mouths long enough to say “Fear stimulus.” then began to explore Alfred's mouth with his tongue.

Abruptly Alfred broke away with a “That reminds me!” and Arthur found himself tonguing at open air. He sighed and leaned against the desk, watching Alfred putter about, putting the cake on the kitchen table and taking his laptop and notes out of his satchel.

Arthur smiled to himself, glanced at his laptop, and head over to where Alfred was sitting on the sofa, his work fanned out on the coffee table before him. Arthur picked up the shopping bag and walked around the kitchen island to put the food away.

Once again their tiny, rented flat filled with the quiet sound of typing.

“What's the next lecture going to be on?” Arthur asked from where he was putting milk in the fridge.

“I'm torn between PTS and Treatments or The Unconscious' Effect on the Conscious. Oh, Arthur.” Arthur turned around, a bag of sugar in one hand, just as Alfred caught him up in his arms. “The magazine says they'll publish my paper.”

Arthur let out a delighted cry and threw his arms around Alfred's neck, as well as he could with the shopping in his hands. “That's amazing, Alfred.” He smiles into the shoulder of Alfred's sweater, voice muffled. He marvels sometimes at this man's ability to turn bad luck around on it's head, and make something good out of it.

A small mewling draws their attention to the space around their ankles where a tiny black kitten with a shivering tail was crying, big blue eyes fixed on the shopping in Arthur's hand.

Alfred bent down and scooped the tiny cat up with one hand, mindful of the blue cast on it's back left leg. It extended it's tiny claws and stretched it's legs awkwardly, but otherwise didn't protest.

They had been walking along the streets not far from their new apartment. It had been late evening and the sun had set some time ago. In the darkness Arthur almost hadn't seen it, a small, black ball of fluff, sitting in the middle of the road. Arthur's breath had caught as the glow of approaching headlamps had lit up the street. He pulled his arm from Alfred's and dashed towards the tiny creature. He felt the car lights bright on his face, heard the blare of a horn, grabbed the tiny ball of fluff, and sprinted to the curb, where he caught his foot and stumbled slightly.

“Arthur!” Alfred called loudly.

Breathing hard, Arthur looked back across the street where Alfred stood waiting for a break in the traffic, eyes wide and fists out of his pockets and clenched by his sides.

As Alfred jogged through a gap in the cars Arthur looked down at the shivering animal in his hands. It's ears twitched and as his heart slowed down he noticed that it had dug it's sharp, needle-like claws into his wrist to hold on, the pain only just starting to register.

Alfred's hand closed around Arthur's bicep. “Arthur, are you alright?”

“I'm fine, Alfred.” Arthur watched Alfred checking him over for injuries. “Al, I'm fine.”

Alfred looked at him, then made himself release Arthur's arm. “What the hell did you think you where doing, running into the road like that?!”

“I dunno.” He mumbled into his scarf.

“Arthur!” Alfred exclaimed “You could have been really hurt! Do you have any idea how scared I was seeing that car heading straight for you?”

“M' sorry.”

“God, for a second I really thought it was going to hit you! I can't believe you would just throw yourself into danger like that!”

“I said I'm sorry, ok!” Arthur snapped. “Where do you get off telling me what to do, like a child. You hypocrite, I was just did what you do all the bloody time!”

They where silent for a moment, the sound of London traffic ebbing around them, and somewhere, softly, music was playing.

“You're right, Arthur, I can't tell you what to do. You're an adult and you can make your own decisions.”

Arthur scowled at the shivering kitten in his hands. “I just wanted to do the right thing.”

“Oh, hun, ”Alfred held Arthur in his arms, gently so as not to crush the kitten. It mewled and they looked down at it between them. “We should get this critter to a vet, looks like it's hurt it's leg. 

Thankfully the kitten didn't have to be put down and instead the vet strapped up it's leg and Alfred and Arthur found themselves the unexpected owners of a tiny, six week old kitten.

Arthur called her Pan, after the mischievous spirit of A Midsummer Night's Dream, because he kept finding her in the most bewildering places. He had no idea what she would be capable of when she was out of her cast.

Arthur took a can of cat food from the cupboard and spooned out some food into Pan's dish. Alfred set her down and she immediately stuck her head into the bowl.

“How was counselling?” Arthur asked, watching Alfred's shoulders hunch where he was crouched, running his hand along the kitten's tiny back.

“Fine.” He stood up and stretched. “She says she's concerned about what my lectures might make me re-live. Well not concerned exactly, more like she thought we should keep any risks in mind.”

“What did you tell her?”Arthur wrapped his arms around Alfred's waist.

Alfred rested his hands on Arthur's arms. “That I love lecturing and greatly appreciate the university giving me the opportunity to use my own experiences to further education, even after I graduated. And I know my own triggers.”

“Well, she's been invaluable over these past months and if she's suggested we keep it in mind we'll keep it in mind.” He squeezed Alfred's waist. “How do you feel?”

Alfred looked over Arthur's head. “Well, the lectures make me _think_ about it, of course. But it's much healthier to think about it and talk about PTS, than to pretend it never happened.”

“I know.” They smiled at each other and shared a quick kiss before Alfred went back to his laptop and notes, and Arthur went about making two cups of tea.

Convincing Alfred to go to the therapist had taken more effort than it should have to get a psychology student to see a professional psychologist. Eventually, even after Arthur called Feliks as backup, Arthur had to promise that he would get his own therapist. After all, there where his own issues he had to resolve.

So Arthur and Alfred caught the bus once a week to the same building, where they would sit in the same waiting room before being called into separate rooms on the opposite sides of the hall from each other.

The first time they had gone Arthur had come out of the hour- long session, his past heavy on his shoulders, and met Alfred back in the waiting room. He had looked just like Arthur felt; exhausted and emotionally stretched.

On the bus back to their apartment Arthur had sat, heart beat loud in his ears as he thought about completing the first assignment his councillor had set. Head still tilted towards the window, he glanced down at Alfred's hand where it rested on the thigh of his jeans.

Slowly, Arthur took his hand out of his coat pocket.

 _Don't embarrass yourself._ A voice hissed in his head. _Don't be pathetic._

Arthur ignored the dying voice of the void, screwed up his courage, reached out, fingertips cold and clammy, and gently placed his hand on top of Alfred's.

Alfred had looked up, broken out of his own train of thought, grinned at Arthur, and laced their fingers tightly together.

Accomplishment burned happily in Arthur's chest and he returned his gaze to the dirty window, cheeks pink, and smiled.

 

* * *

 

A few weeks after their first therapy session Arthur returned to the apartment from the university to find someone standing outside his building. 

Arthur stopped.

He stared.

Then he called out, uncertainly “Laura?”

She looked up and smiled.

 

* * *

 

 

Clamping down on the cacophony of thoughts tumbling around his head, Arthur set the tea pot onto the tray with it's matching set of cups and saucers and brought it over to where Laura sat on the sofa. It was so strange seeing her there, so out of place, it almost felt as though Arthur was walking through a bizarre dream.

She smiled at his tea-set, accepted a cup and went straight to the point. “When they told me you sold your house I didn't know what to think.”

Arthur sipped at his over-sweetened tea and wondered how many details he could leave out. “How did you find me?”

“Complete chance.” She sipped and hummed “That's nice.”

“You know how I love my tea.”

They sat in silence for a while, awkwardly half turned toward each other.

“I first saw you on a bus, you where with this cute guy, blond, glasses.”

“That's Alfred.” Arthur told her, a small smile threatened at the corner of his mouth.

“Saw you again in town, followed you back here. I didn't show up immediately because I didn't know how you would feel, seeing me. But I wanted to see you so I came back and just hung around until you came home.”

Arthur ran his fingers over the delicate handle of the cup.

“So that guy seems nice. I'm happy for you, if you're happy.” She turned further towards him.

“I am happy, Laura. I'm really happy.” And to his horror Arthur's eyes misted. She let him rub at them in silence.

“What about you, Laura? Are you all right? You're not still...”

“I am.” She cut him off.

“Oh, Laura...” Arthur whispered.

“Don't you 'Oh, Laura' me!” She set her tea on the coffee table and brought her knee onto the sofa to face Arthur. “I know you had a terrible time of it, and I know it was killing you, and god I couldn't stand to see you like that, but I love my job, Arthur, I really do. I was just in Belgium with this one man, very keen, kept throwing money at me to make me stay, I'm lucky enough to be in a position where I can call the shots. I know this life isn't for every one but it suits me damn fine.”

Arthur sighed. “I know, Laura.”

“I tried to keep in touch, but you know contact is difficult to keep up in our different circles.”

“I know, Laura.”

They sit and talk as their tea goes cold until Alfred comes home. He opens the door and the surprise on his face makes Arthur smile. He sees Laura to the door, assures her that he's fine and says goodbye to his old colleague for, perhaps, the last time.

That afternoon Boots came on the radio. Arthur stopped as it played. It felt like the whole world came to a silent stand-still but that song. It floated from the speakers of the tiny machine where it had been plugged in at the kitchen wall, close to where Arthur was washing up dishes and Alfred was drying.

Alfred turned to look at him, eyes wide with recognition.

Arthur held the plate he had been scouring and listened. Then slowly he resumed cleaning and gently, softly, hummed along.

 

* * *

 

Arthur woke to the quiet sound of Alfred's nightmare.

He rolled over and placed his hand on the side of Alfred's face, automatically making hushing noises before he was even completely awake.

Alfred's eyes opened in the dark and he shifted and kicked, moaning quietly.

“Alfred, darling.” Arthur murmured, running his hand over Alfred's shoulder and side. He watched Alfred huff and the lines on his forehead relax as his eyes grew focused.

Alfred closed his eyes and sighed. Then he rolled onto his back and rubbed his hand over his face.

Arthur rested his hand on Alfred's broad chest, feeling the pounding of his heart begin to slow through the hot cotton, then rolled towards the bedside table behind him, picked up the small silver and black instrument that rested there. He handed the gripper to Alfred and settled back against his side, hand over his heart.

Alfred worked the gripper in his hand. Arthur smiled at the memory of the day they'd taken the arm brace off. Alfred had been horrified at how his forearm had shrunk despite, through his laughter, Arthur trying to reassure him the atrophy would go away with exersize.

The grippers provided a nice way of simultaneously rebuilding strength in his arm and a gentle distraction from nightmares.

Arthur felt the muscle under his hand tense and relax rapidly with the squeaking of the little exerciser. “Feeling all right, love?”

“Yeah. I was back in the court room...Testifying again...He was just sitting there...Watching me.” He squeezed the gripper, then rolled onto his side and wrapped his arm around Arthur's back. Arthur kissed his forehead. “It's hard to shake off the feeling of being watched.” Alfred whispered.

“I know, darling.” Arthur murmured sleepily.

In the quiet Alfred grinned and pulled Arthur closer against him. “You called me darling.”

Arthur breathed in sharply through his nose, and suddenly was wide awake. “I'm sorry, I..”

“No.” Alfred smiled. “I like it.” He felt Arthur's cheek heat under his and he nuzzled into Arthur's neck, pressing kisses to the soft skin.

Arthur gasped and laughed. “Alfred, stop, you know I'm ticklish there!” Grinning, Arthur squirmed and pushed against Alfred's chest but Alfred rolled them so his weight held Arthur down. Alfred threw the gripper over the side of the bed and Arthur let out a noise that was caught between a laugh and a groan as their hips where pressed together, bringing up his knees and running his instep against Alfred's calf.

Arthur's chuckles devolved into gasps as Alfred tongued hotly at that place just under Arthur's jaw that made his toes curl.

“Oh, you're such a bastard.” He breathed and dragged his nails down Alfred's muscled back in retaliation.

Alfred sat up and Arthur dropped his hands to his hips as they rocked against each other. Together they watched each other grow hard in their boxers, round and pressed warmly together between their thighs. Alfred placed his hands on either side of Arthur's chest, arched his back and dragged his hips against the man beneath him.

They laughed breathlessly at the noise that had forced its way from Arthur's throat as he tipped his head back and looked at the ceiling. “Alfred, come back” Arthur breathed, taking Alfred's head in his hands “Alfred, it's cold.”

Alfred grinned and grabbed the edges of the duvets and blankets they’d piled onto their bed. The result was a warm nest they could cuddle close in, wrapped around each other in the dark, shutting out the rest of the world and the chill of winter that crept in under their doors and windows. Alfred brought the blankets over their heads and cocooned himself and his lover in soft, dark, warmth.

Alfred pushed Arthur's shirt up his chest, running his fingers over the scars there and kissed and sucked at his nipples. Arthur groaned and carded his fingers through Alfred's soft, golden hair, feeling the locks grow hot and damp under his hands.

Releasing Alfred head where he had been pressing it against him, Arthur grabbed fistfuls of Alfred's shirt and started dragging it up over his back. Alfred bit Arthur's nipple, laughed at his yelp, and yanked his shirt over his shoulders and threw it on the floor, pulling Arthur’s off to join it.

Kissing his way down Arthur's clenching stomach, Alfred wrapped an arm around Arthur's slim waist and with his other hand, yanked Arthur's boxers down. Arthur's balls where soft and warm against his knuckles and his cock fell, heavy against his stomach.

The muscles all along Arthur's spine tensed drawing in his shoulders and dipping a hollow into his stomach, desperately he rocked his hips up into empty air. Alfred's forehead pressed hard against Arthur's diaphragm and a thrill of pleasure shot through his thighs and up his spine at the pressure. He pushed Alfred's hair off his face and gripped his head with both hands as Alfred tongued at the head of his cock. Arthur mewled and shifted his feet restlessly.

As Alfred laved at Arthur's cock lazily he pulled Arthur's underwear off and tossed it away. He hooked his hands behind Arthur's soft thighs, pushing them up and holding them firmly to Arthur's sides. Arthur breathed harder and grew warmer as he felt Alfred's thumbs press bruises into his skin. Alfred drew his tongue to the base of Arthur's cock, to his balls, and sucked a red mark into the place where Arthur's thigh met his hip. As he ran his tongue over the fluttering skin of Arthur's hole he had to press Arthur harder into the mattress, keeping him still at he bucked and wailed.

Arthur's ankles rolled and his toes flexed as Alfred sucked a kiss to Arthur's hole, then pressed his tongue hard against it. Arthur's stomach muscles burned as he curled forwards as the tip of Alfred's tongue pushed inside.

Alfred pulled away and pressed a parting kiss to Arthur's hole. Arthur collapsed back, muscles burning, breathing hard, and stretching his arms over his head. Alfred released Arthur's legs and let his feet rest on the mattress again. He ran his warm hands over Arthur's soft thighs, stroked one of the scars gently, then placed his hands on Arthur's knees and pushed them apart.

He slowed as Arthur's knees neared the mattress and he watched Arthur arch and raise his arms above his head, pushing his hands under the pillow, eyes fixed on Alfred. His thighs burned as Alfred continued the pressure until Arthur's thighs where flat to the mattress, Alfred between them, watching his cock jump against his stomach. Arthur's flexibility made Alfred's cock hard.

Alfred leaned down, pressing their hips together, resting his weight on Arthur's body, and kissed Arthur. He gasped wetly against Alfred's mouth as he dragged his nails along Arthur's spread legs, feeling the stretched ligaments and muscle under his skin.

Arthur wiggled and Alfred turned his head to kiss at Arthur's neck on the delicate skin below his ear. Alfred stripped off his own boxers and threw them over the side of the bed. Arthur wrapped his arms around Alfred's shoulders as he opened the bedside draw and rooted through it for the bottle of lube.

As Alfred squeezed some of the cool gel onto his fingers, warming it as Arthur took the corners of the blankets and pulled them back over Alfred's shoulders.

Arthur pulled on Alfred's hair as he pressed their mouths together, pushing his tongue in to meet Alfred's as his fingers circled Arthur's hole.

“I could just take all of you right now.” Arthur whispered desperately. His knees lifted as Alfred's first finger pushed inside. “Your whole cock right now.”

Alfred groaned and mouthed at Arthur's neck. “No” He murmured “Gonna take you slowly, make you open and _ah_ ” Arthur ran his nails hard along Alfred's back “wet, so I can just slip in. No pain.”

Arthur knew that he pressed Alfred like this so he could hear him reiterate his promises every time. His promises to never make him bleed, never hurt him, never make him feel like he was being used. Testing Alfred's resolve of steel and hearing him tirelessly repeat his promises made something burn white hot deep in Arthur.

“Please, Alfred.” Arthur moaned as Alfred fucked him slowly with his finger. “I want to feel my ass stretch around your cock.”

Alfred pressed his second finger inside and felt Arthur's moan through his throat, where he hid his face. “When you're ready.” It made his heart beat harder to re-establish their pact every single time “No pain.”

“No pain.” Arthur whispered almost unconsciously.

Arthur wrapped his legs around Alfred's waist as he pressed the third finger in, fucking slowly and deep. He crooked his fingers into such a well learned angle it was almost reflex, and hit Arthur’s prostate. Arthur wailed and bucked against him, mouth open and white stars dancing in the dark.

“I think you can fit four in.” Alfred bites at Arthur's jaw and squeezes more lube onto his fingers.

“ _Alfred”_ A white hot spike of arousal courses through Arthur's body as he feels Alfred push in another finger. It's tight, but Alfred goes slowly and opens Arthur up and presses in.

Arthur rocks his hips hard against Alfred, fucking himself on his fingers and rubbing his cock against Alfred's muscular stomach.

Alfred's driving him wild and he can't take it any more. He clasps Alfred's face in his hands, meets his eyes and says “Alfred, make love to me.”

Alfred groans and presses his face to Arthur's, knowing he's being played on his romantic side. Their noses bump and Arthur listens to the sounds they make breathing each others air and the wet noises of Alfred smoothing more lube over his cock.

Alfred leans over Arthur, the heat between their bodies burning away the cold night air, he presses his thumbs to Arthur's wet hole and opens him up to take the head of his cock. They groan as Alfred pushes shallowly inside.

Arthur hardly breaths as Alfred rocks against the resistance inside him. He kisses Arthur, panting hotly against his lips, pushes, draws back and works the head against his opening, then pushes back up.

Alfred runs his hands over Arthur's chest and presses down on Arthur's clenching stomach, pushing him into the mattress. His other hand continues down over Arthur's wet cock and he presses his palm to Arthur's balls, fingers close to where he's opening Arthur up. Arthur grins “Yes” he hisses against Alfred's mouth, loving how Alfred knows how to work him. His toes curl as Alfred's cock pushes through the resistance and his hips bump against Arthur's ass.

Alfred's hips work between Arthur's thighs

Arthur tipped his head back and closed his eyes. Holding on to Alfred's broad shoulders and feeling the muscle shift under his hot skin.

Arthur wraps his legs tighter around Alfred's waist and locks his ankles together, thighs wide apart.

Pleasure burns liquid in Arthur's stomach, drawing him in, closer to Alfred, curling his knees to his chest. He pulls on Alfred's shoulders as he fucks deep into him.

There's a rush of cold air as Alfred sits up, and taking Arthur by the upper-arms, hauls him up to sit on his lap. Alfred's cock hits Arthur's sweet-spot deep inside him and he cries out loudly. Alfred grabs the ends of a blanket and shrugs it onto his shoulders, wrapping it around Arthur and holding him tight to his chest. Arthur arches his back and Alfred's cock hits that spot relentlessly and Arthur's groans escalate to an almost constant wail.

Sweat makes their stomachs and thighs slick as Alfred fucks Arthur with enough power to bounce Arthur hard on his cock.

Arthur opens his eyes and forces them to focus on Alfred's face. He's already looking at him, eyes fixed on Arthur's slack jaw and red cheeks, fuzzy eyebrows drawn together.

“Arthur” he breaths.

“Alfred” Arthur cries out and closes his eyes against another shock of agonising pleasure. He forces them open again. “Alfred, I...”

It's that moment again.

The moment where his heart is on the tip of his tongue, it's all ready to come out, but the fist of fear clamps hard in his chest. And Alfred's looking at him. And he knows. He knows Arthur wants to say something to him. But it's gone again and the pleasure slips from Arthur's face as it closes off and he feels the frustration choke tight in his chest. It's enough to ruin his orgasm. He feels the high sicken and slip away.

Alfred stops moving and Arthur's removes his hands from his shoulders and crosses his arms. He wants to close his legs and roll away from Alfred. Christ, he's really ruined it this time, Alfred's still hard inside him while his own erection is flagging rapidly, leaving that itching, burning need unfulfilled. Maybe he can just suck Alfred off and pretend this never happened.

Alfred presses his face to Arthur's neck, kisses it once, lightly, then clamps his mouth there and blows a huge, loud raspberry.

Arthur squalls and flails but Alfred has his arms clamped around Arthur's shoulders and Arthur can only press his fists to Alfred's chest.

“Alfred! Alfred!” He kicks and the bands loosen in his chest and he starts to laugh.

Alfred leans back and smiles into Arthur's red face. Arthur smiles back, small, and covers his face with his hands. “I'm so embarrassed.” He groans, voice muffled.

“Why?” Alfred takes his hands in his and moves them away from his face.

“Because...you didn't...”

“Arthur. I love you. I love being close to you just as much as I love orgasming with you, and contrary to common belief those two things don't always happen. Orgasm isn't the only conclusion of sex.”

Arthur tried not to think about the scores of men he knew would scoff at that belief.

Alfred looked into Arthur's face, trying to meet his eyes.

“Are you ready to talk about it?”

Arthur looked at the duvet beneath them and thought about saying no again. Alfred would lay them down, kiss him good night and wait to see if Arthur felt like sleeping in his arms. If he didn't Alfred would kiss him again and they would lie back to back until Arthur felt the frustration bubble down enough for him to wrap his arms around Alfred and fall asleep.

Arthur thought about saying no again, but his breath caught when he realised that he was ready.

“I love you, Alfred.” The sparkle in Alfred's eyes as he said it and the grin that lit up his face in the dark encouraged Arthur to continue. “It's not just that I love you, but that I trust you. I've talked about this for hours and hours in therapy and I want you to know that I trust you. Completely. Which is amazing because” he laughed self-deprecatingly “I've never trusted any one before. I never imagined I would be able to. I love you, Alfred, and I trust you.”

Alfred hauled Arthur against his chest and kissed him hard on the mouth. “God I love you, Arthur. I love you so much.”

Alfred pressed kisses all over Arthur's face. He shifted beneath Arthur who gasped at the spike of pleasure. “Alfred you're still hard.”

Alfred grinned sheepishly. “Sorry. I love being inside you. I love you being inside me. I just love everything we do. I'll just...” He moved to pull out but Arthur pressed down roughly. Alfred chocked, his eyelids fluttering.

“No, keep going.” Arthur said breathlessly.

“You sure?” Alfred gasped, a light tremor running through his thighs.

“Yes” Arthur wrapped his arms back around Alfred's shoulders and looked at him through half-lidded eyes. “Make me scream, darling”

Alfred's eyes glinted mischievously and he wrapped the blanket more tightly around them both. “Yes, sir.” He grinned, and with one arm under Arthur's bum and the other around his back, Alfred stood up on the bed.

Arthur's half-hard cock jumped. “Alfred!” He squawked and locked his legs tight around Alfred's waist.

Alfred pressed Arthur up against the wall their bed was tucked against, freed the arm that was behind Arthur's back and started tugging on his cock. Arthur's toes curled and his head lolled against the wall as Alfred pulled him back to hot and panting.

“Do you like that?” Alfred breathed.

Arthur took his face in his hands “I love it. Now fuck me, sweetheart, and do put your back into it.”

Alfred laughed, released Arthur's hot cock and let it bob about his navel, caught Arthur firmly by the thighs and started up a hard, fast rhythm.

Arthur purred in Alfred's ear. His cock hit deep and delicious tremors of pleasure shook themselves from Arthur's flexing toes to his fingertips where they ran up and down Alfred's back. Arthur's cock was trapped between their bodies, rubbed slickly by Alfred's firm abdominal muscles, his balls bumped by Alfred's pubic bone.

Alfred mouthed at Arthur's neck and rocked up onto his toes with each thrust, the bedsprings squeaking under his feet.

Hitting that spot dead on, Alfred pushed Arthur harder against the wall as he wailed and tried to arch his back.

“Alfred!” Arthur groaned. “Please don't stop!”

“Yes.” Alfred sighed into Arthur's neck “You're perfect.”

Arthur felt the pressure build, the waves of pleasure cresting higher as Alfred bit and sucked at his neck. His eyes started to roll up as the head of Alfred's cock hit his prostate dead on, again and again. _“Yes_

The pleasure licked along the soles of Arthur's feet, the back of his knees, through the muscles in his legs, where Alfred's hands gripped his thighs so tightly, in his stomach and his chest and his hands, emptying his head of everything but _“Alfred!”_

The tremors in Arthur's legs became spasms that shook his body with every hard thrust Alfred made and suddenly Arthur gasped, curled around Alfred and wailed as he came, and came, and came.

Alfred had been hard for so long and so close that Arthur's clenching muscles, shaking around his cock finally made him let go, his cock pulsing his come inside of Arthur.

They breathed, and shook, and endured the agony of blissful aftershocks, before Alfred's strength finally deserted him and he slumped back onto their bed. Falling sideways they groaned as their heads hit the pillows.

Alfred threw a hand over the side of the bed and searched blindly until his fingers met the soft cotton of one of their shirts. He pulled it up and used it to wipe the come and lube from their stomachs and between Arthur's thighs. Then he tossed it back overboard.

“Alf'd...Alfred...It's cold”

Alfred just groaned in response so Arthur drew on the last reserves of energy and sat up enough to drag the mass of duvets and blankets back over their bodies.

“I love you.” Alfred yawned.

“Love you too.” Arthur slurred into his shoulder.

 

* * *

 

When Arthur woke he could see by the pale light and the chill of the air that it was early morning.

He spent a few minutes fulfilling his customary routine, gazing at Alfred as he continued to sleep. He got up as quietly as he could, shivering in the morning air. He swiped one of Alfred's frumpiest sweaters from where it hung over the back of a chair and pulled it on over his naked body.

He took steps towards the bedroom door, but stopped, thinking.

He turned and padded softly to their wardrobe and opened the doors. Pushing coats and shirts aside Arthur took his steel-capped leather boots from the bottom of the wardrobe.

He zipped them up his to his thighs and clicked the heels together. Today was the day and he needed to feel badass.

Arthur quietly closed their bedroom door and marched over to his laptop where it sat innocently at his desk. He sat down, switched it on and brought up the fist page of his first finished novel.

The tiny black kitten mewled by his foot and Arthur leaned down to stroke her as she nudged her head against the leather of Arthur's boot.

Eventually he sat back up and stared at the blinking cursor and racked his brain to pinpoint exactly what he wanted to capture. How Alfred made him feel. Just how much he loved Alfred. How proud he was of him. How lucky he was to have Alfred. To know him. To be inspired by him.

There are some people out there who don't have Alfreds to help them and the majority of the time sees those people crushed into sad, spiteful shadows of the actual selves. It's hard to remember reasons to stay good, when no one seems to want to do good for you.

It's hard to realise that sometimes we have to be our own heroes, and become the person we needed for other people. Somehow take that negativity and transform it into positivity. Alfred reaching out to Arthur made the spark inside him grow brighter. It made him want to reach out to others.

Arthur loved Alfred and he wanted to see his words immortalised in print.

Arthur set his fingers to the keyboard and started to type. It was slow going and the pattern of writing, deleting, writing, editing took time and effort, but finally, _finally_ the bones of his feelings pulled together into words and sentences. Arthur sat back and looked at his creation, allowing, almost for the first time, to feel pride bubble up inside himself.

He was one step closer to repaying Alfred. This was another topic often the subject of long hours in therapy, but this book was going to help him become Alfred's equal. He didn't feel that he owed Alfred anything, but rooted deep inside Arthur was the knowledge that if Alfred hadn't pulled him from that alleyway, if the teachers hadn't talked to him, none of this would have been possible, and this book was going to prove that he deserved the chances taken on him. Hopefully this, and many novels still to come, would mean that financially he could stand on his own two feet and that his work had paid off. Then he could look at Alfred eye to eye and know that he was his equal.

“Arthuuur”

He twisted around towards the bedroom door where Alfred stood, wrapped in a blanket, hair a mess, and eyes squinting blearily at him. “Come back t' bed.” He mumbled.

Arthur grinned, stood up, unzipped the boots and threw them into a corner.

He held Alfred's face in his hands and they smiled at each other, kissed, then shut the door and went back to bed.

For a while the screen of Arthur's computer continued to glow, then it dimmed, and finally went dark.

 

 

 

 

_Alfred,_

_To whom goes my unending rhapsodising._

_You are my hedonist, my headrush of logic-defying hormones._

_You are my paradoxical electric signal._

_You are my anomaly in the human race._

_You are my kismet, my tachycardia, my hero._

_I love you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N; Thank you all so, so much.
> 
> I wrote in my personal statement on my university application form that I had published a short novel online, because, crumbs, this is almost 60,000 words.
> 
> Anyway, the fact that I wrote this thing, and that people read it and commented on it really strengthened my application.
> 
> So now. I'm in university. And I'm studying Art and Creative Writing.
> 
> Guy's this story, and the fact that you guys read it and some of you are all the way on the other side of the world, really means so much to me, I cant even express it. Guys this story is dedicated to you because you made my application so strong, guys I didn't even have to go to an interview.
> 
> Guy's you where my Alfreds. Without you I don't think I would have made it to one of the most popular writing courses in england.
> 
> I've heard from some of the most amazing people who have commented on this and I'm so glad to have heard from them. Reviews, of course, are my ambrosia and I glow a little with every one I receive but some people who commented, like an anonymous reviewer who called themselves J'adore, and the person who commented about thinking about my story as they delivered babies really made writing this an amazing experience.
> 
> Thank you all again, jeez it's been three years, sometimes i look over what i wrote and cringe, I'm as old as Alfred now.
> 
> I love you guys, and thanks again. If you're thinking about going into writing I strongly recommend publishing online.
> 
> This ones for you.
> 
> (P.S. Oh my god guys help i'm Alfred I just made a huge stack of American pancakes for my flat and invited some guys from the flat opposite over, and this wasn't even the time I cooked pancakes in the same pan as bacon because mmmm bacon pancakes help me i'm a fictional male character)
> 
> (P.P.S. Does this mean I get an Arthur?)
> 
> BTW I found the most fitting song for this fic, it's spooky how applicable it is and I love it: Angel, by Sarah McLachlan

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are my ambrosia.


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